


Joy Ride: stealing

by theAsh0



Series: Joyride [4]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Awesome Shuri (Marvel), Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Divergent Timelines, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Healing, Healing Sex, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Torture, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, Intrigue, Lovers to Friends, Medical Torture, Medical Trauma, Mental Health Issues, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Plot, Plot Twists, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Spies & Secret Agents, To Read, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Wild Ride, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:55:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 65,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23127391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theAsh0/pseuds/theAsh0
Summary: Wakanda is great. He’s going to enjoy it. So what if he sticks out like a scurfy white thumb? Let them look. He likes it. Shuri likes it. It feels good.Oh god. It feels.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Shuri
Series: Joyride [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1479119
Comments: 257
Kudos: 83
Collections: Bucky Barnes: Remember Who You Are, Bucky Shuri, Bucky and or winter soldier centric, Bucky barnes recovery, Sterekcrazy Wakanda Forever Fics





	1. wake up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James wakes up. Everything is awesome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo. Thank you for visiting. This part of the series will be a bit of a slowburn Shuri×Bucky with plot. But with a not-so too happy ending. This will be a 5/6 series. the series will have a happy end.  
> Do you need to read the previous parts?  
> Well, yes. But not if you read this really short summary.  
> -part 2 is mostly a character study for Shuri, so you can skip this. But if you're into this you probably like that too.  
> Part 1 is plot relevant but if you are here for the slow romance there is next to nothing there. So let me give you the rundown:  
> James visited Tony in hospital and patched things up with him before coming to Wakanda.  
> They spent a long time discussing how to take care of James, and after a couple of weeks a Hydra agent tried to get to James. Hawkeye killed him just in time.  
> In response the Avengers in exile decide to leave James in Wakanda early and throw a false trail. At the same time the will be working in their PR.  
> Panicked at the thought of being left behind, James tries to express his feelings and kisses Steve. Steve doesn't deal well. But Sam Wilson (Falcon) finds out and promises to patch things up for James. James goes into cryo, just before the start of the Black Panther film, as is canon.

**November 2017**

The first; the _very first thing_ James became aware of, was that he had already, irrevocably, _fucked it all up_. And that wasn’t fair; not fair at all! He hadn’t even gotten a decent _chance._

But then when had he _ever_ got a chance? When had life ever been fair to him? Not to James Barnes, surely.

Or; well.. so maybe fucking up wasn't the _very_ first thing. Maybe James had noticed some small things first: like waking up from cryo stasis was all _wrong_ : the texture and shape of the pod; the way the temperature raised evenly and carefully. And, most obviously, the angle at which he found himself: not the usual vertical standing position that had him down at the bottom of the bottle as soon as thawn set in. (Literally; like the dregs of wine kept too-long with legs defrosted into wet noodles.) But not quite horizontal either; not prone and helplessly laid out. No, this new and shiney and comfortable cryo tube was angled somewhere in between. It wasn’t a _bad_ wrong. Just different. 

The second thing he registered as off, was the beautiful young woman's face floating over him with her benevolent smile. Her breath, warm on his skin and bringing home, once again, there was not even a pane of glass between them. Big, dark eyes shining kindly over full lips baring perley-white teeth. Hair done up in an intricate braid. And skin; wonderfully dark skin near black against the white shining panels overhead. What a vision to wake up to: the stuff of dreams really. 

And perhaps that’s how it all went to hell; his brain still muted but playing a distinct jubilant fanfare of triumph in the background. Because things looked increasingly good to James: fairy-tale good. _No-Hydra_ magically good. And yes; James supposed he should know by now that two wrongs don’t make a wright. That getting cocky never ended well for him. That hubris always came just before the fall. But damn it; he thought he had it made. Thought he had finally won.

His black angel stepped back, straightened her back and cocked her long neck slightly as she made room for him to sit up. The white high collar accentuating her every move as she spoke: "Welcome back to the world of the living, mister Barnes." With a quirk of the mouth, one corner slightly up; a play at sarcastic and street-wise by this child from heaven. Then, like an afterthought: “do you know where you are?”

And James didn’t drop the ball _quite_ yet. And he might wonder later - had she thrown him a soft-ball first, to lure him into a false sense of security? But no; this one did not have a false bone within her delicate body. Likely, the impending doom was just his cosmic karma coming back to haunt him: lying low for now, because fucking up _here-and-now_ would not have been as catastrophic as doing so _later_. Yes, karma! Why do things half-way when you can crash and burn and totally ruin everything by employing a little patience.

So; James didn’t miss a beat. Not yet. He raised his head to track her path, regarding her silhouette against glass walls and walkways beyond. He took in the bright sunlight filtering in around her, it’s source obscured. He immersed himself in the thrum around him, in murmurs of a whole community living just beyond the tinted glass; breathed in filtered air that carried a hint of jungle from beyond. 

“Of course I do, Princess. I’m in Wakanda.” James hazarded returning her beaming smile, catalogued the familiarity in her gaze, and offered: “and can I just say you look more radiant than ever.”

Test aced, her smile widened further; lovingly warm and welcoming, before she turned away to ask him to follow to the next room when he was ready. 

Navigating himself out of the pod was an easy task thanks to the flip-down sides. Even if James found himself missing a limb. Next James happily discarded the pink monstrosity he was wearing in favor of wide pants and a soft shirt left for him. For a moment he paused, mildly concerned about his missing left arm.The shoulder joint appeared to still be intact, but whatever was left underneath wrapped bandages could not be much more than a docking port.

For a moment James felt the temptation to look; to remember. A morbid curiosity to know what had destroyed the latest iteration of his left arm. He could feel the memories, strong and intact; fleshing out his personality. Bouyoning him into this person. But James also knew from experience that whatever lay just beyond his last sleep; within the swamps of his past were best left alone when waking; left where they were, a comfort yet a . Digging it out was never worth the effort. And if there were things James needed to know? Well, there were other, less painful ways to figure them out. So, with a shrug, James followed the young nurse to the next room. He found her alone, seated behind several projected hologram screens, looking even younger before as her fingers moved with incredible speed through the air. 

And that racked a little; that this girl had been abandoned by her people so easily; left alone to fend for herself. Like a sacrificial lamb. A maiden offered to the beast while the tribe looked on, enraptured by the promise of bloodshed. Although, so far the people of Wakanda took little notice of the spectacle that was usually expected of him. Ttue, semi-translucent walls offered broken visages to workspaces and walkways that were nearly crowded with scientists and engineers and doctors. But they appeared honestly absorbed in their work, and James could tell there was no team on stand-by. No observation room closeby; no adjacent space from which James could feel the tense stillness of trained fighters watching and monitoring for any sign of danger. 

Which was useless, of course; even security _inside_ this very room would not have a shadow of a chance to stop the Winter Soldier from killing this woman if he got it in his head to do so. 

Still, it would have been _nice_ to know these people cared enough to make the effort. Nice to know the people of Wakanda differed from Hydra in that most important aspect; the one where lives were regarded as precious. James suppressed a sigh as he sat in the one open chair in the room, and sat silently as the young woman typed and swiped wildly in the air. He had assumed she was a nurse. But now, watching her at a computer, he supposed she must be some intern or scientist. 

Finally, she turned to him and asked a question in the form of a single word.

A question that didn’t register at all. _At. all._

And James supposes _that’s_ where he lost the initiative; where he lost the game: a single word without a hint of meaning or intent. And that had shocked James’s system into reeling. Because James spoke at least thirty languages, and recognised three times as many, but this word? Nothing; not a hint of recognition. 

Was this the hidden, secret Wakandan language he had heard of? What the Russians had suspected? But why would _she_ speak it to _him_ ? To the Winter Soldier, when he obviously didn’t understand; didn’t even recognise verb roots, or any dialect familiarity. And yet, she obviously expected _some_ form of reply..

After the initial struggle to make eye-contact; to relax and act like everything was fine —to calm down far enough to observe; see her; hear her heart-beat over his own read her little twitches and tensions. Those little tells this woman would not even know she had— he found her eyes studying, head tipping to the side. That long, frail neck taunting him from white see-through lace. Like she was just inviting him to reach out and.. Her lips again moved, a soft lilt. “[]|[]|[]|[]?”

James was ready for it this time. Read the timbre and the inflection and the feel of the word. But the only thing he could say about this _second_ word was that it was different from the previous. And yet it meant nothing; _absolutely nothing_. James made Bucky’s face smile, swallowing the bile. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

She did not. But two more words followed. Next a number. One more piece of gibberish and another number that somehow didn’t want to quantify. More sounds,.. Until finally, she uttered the first thing that made any sense at all: 

“one,” 

followed by a final uttering of meaningless vowels. 

And.. that _meant_ something. It should mean more. Like a sentence. Or a prayer. Or a spell? Yet that was as far as James got. He racked his brain for it; dived deep in memories he wanted no part of, but found nothing he could relate to the words. No. wait. There was something. Something about ten words, and what they meant and what they did but... 

The girl-nurse was studying him, like she too expected more. Like she felt obligated to brace herself, yet didn’t feel the need. And yet, somewhere she wanted; needed. Craved for a thing. But, they were both left waiting. Wanting. The Winter Soldier could not provide.

And then, that petite little nurse with the big brown eyes and the perfect dark skin had smiled at him again; an assured, smug grin, as she proclaimed: 

“That’s it Sergeant Barnes. I declare you hale.”

His confusion must have still shown on Bucky’s face, because she continued. “I know you said you didn’t care as long as the sequence could no longer take effect. But after some more deliberation, we figured it would be safe enough for you to keep “one”, and only cut the association linked to the sequence.”

She turned away, back to regard her screens. And from her profile James recognised that glint in her eye. A fanatic sheen of commitment that usually spelled trouble but apparently —in this case— had been committed to his protection. “The other numbers in the sequence we did cut, though not as proactively. Removing your basic ability to do math really didn’t sit well with me, personally. And I talked Wanda into looking deep enough to make sure it should be fine…”

She trailed off slowly, revolving her chair to catch his gaze, sharp enough even in her excitement to tell. “You _do_ remember _Wanda_ , don’t you? She was hesitant to look into a mind again. But Stark kind of egged her on and then she got acquainted with our lucid dreaming techniques. Well; one thing led to another, and..” 

It finally clicked. The trigger words. Those words had been the sequence that should have reset him. Should have put the Winter Soldier back under command. It was like his insides dropped out from under of him; for if the sequence had _not_ been removed fully, this little nurse would have been the new commander of her very own do-it-yourself murderbot. 

“Don’t worry! She didn’t look too deep.” The girl hurried on, apparently again wise to his thoughts. “And we took great care. Testing, trying. In fact; well. We took a little longer than we’d meant to. With the whole of Wakanda’s civil war and an usurper.. Never mind that. Counting from one to twenty and back a few times should fix you right up. As for the other words.. You’re just going to have to completely relearn them.”

Fear morphed to incredulity morphed into anger. It could have been _worse_ ! If the sequence had been broken, but not removed perfectly,.. If something had gone _wrong_ or the Winter Soldier had woken up on the wrong side of the cryo tube.. so to speak. Angry and hurting and out for blood.. James would have likely ripped this _sweet girl to shreds._

It disgusted him; that Wakanda’s doctors would be such blasé cowards to set such a task to a nurse, while they retreated to obvious safety. Sickened him; because he’d thought these people would be better. Wrong-footed and more sluggish in his thought-process then he had realised, James snorted, running an angry finger along the arm padding of his chair; his one hand twitchy for something to squeeze, and sceptically asked: “what? Are the doctors all too busy for the _stress test_?”

The nurse's smile slipped to something feral and sharp and then her eyes flashed: “ _I’m_ your doctor, remember? I’m _Shuri?_ ”

And, —oh— for a moment his incredulity must have shown on his face. And when he’d followed it up with a clumsy, too fast, too light “of course.” 

Well, her anger broke and banked into a flood of something _far worse_. A sad look of what could only be disappointment. She physically distanced herself; sitting back and listing away somewhat. Eyes slanting away in an obvious attempt to cut herself off; to protect herself from such callous remarks.

And then, with a brain at only ten percent, thawing but sluggish without the mandatory post-thaw wipe. Knowledge there but covered under the dregs of sleep; right there for him to dust off as soon as he’d gathered the courage to look. (But he wasn’t quite awake enough to _deal._ Would probably never be awake and brave enough to look without a good shock to the system.) So when James had continued with an “of course, _doctor Shuri..!_ ” 

_Dear god_ it was _Princess_ Shuri, wasn’t it? He had guessed it right the first time. Using the term as an endearment. A compliment. But Shuri _really was_ a princess, wasn’t she? And wouldn’t that take precedence? Or, as a doctor, should he not have used her last name? But he couldn't remember that; no matter how hard he battered that grey slush of a brain of his. —And yes, thank you, he had quite enough of a shock to be fully awake now. Did she even _have_ a last name? Had she told him? Would she hold a grudge and consider nothing but a callous white man if she had but he had not bothered to remember?

Which brought us back here, to the now, where James had fucked it all up, in record time, once again; in the one true sanctuary where Hydra was not supposed to be able to reach him. Trying to stay absolutely still in his chair and at this point actually thankful he’d lost that metal arm, maimed and half-blind as he felt without it. Because James had never gotten the hang of keeping it quiet under stress.

But none of it was _fair!_ James had been doing so well. So good. Better than he’d known: the princess herself his ally. Caring for him; nursing him. What a privilege-- what a chance! The most powerful woman in the safest country, going mother-hen mode on him and caring for him.

And damn it, she did care, didn’t she? It was evident in the way she had talked to him; looked at him, smiled at him. She cared. Or she _had_ cared. 

Until James went and opened his stupid damn mouth. How it chaved; how it burned. She would discard him now, for sure. Forget about him; the man she’d made such great efforts for. When all he’d done up until this point for her was lay there and impersonate a snow ghoul. But she hadn't even minded that; probably would have been fine with James playing a mute half-wit. But no, he had to try and impress her didn't he? James only had himself to blame.

Princess Shuri drumms her hands on the table, her eyes squinting at him in thinly veiled dissection. “What’s the last thing you remember, Sergeant Barnes?”

Feeling he owes her, James runs his tongue over his upper teeth, and turns his attention inward. Forces himself to face his own mind and study whatever memories come up. And instantly remembers why he avoids this kind of action like the plague. ”Oh, right.” Especially right after waking up.

“Steve _left_ me here.”

Well, this sucked.

James fights the urge to blink, to suck in a breath. To crush the armrest with his single hand. To throw the whole damn chair right thought that _stupid glass wall_ —glass walls; what was the point? Either have a window, or have a fucking wall. Not have a see-through surface and then blind it out with stupid.. Stupid attempts at modern cleverness.

Anyway, freaking out wouldn't change anything. Just because he’d thought Stevie would somehow be different just because he was old and ancient too; well, guess what. 

Guess not. 

But that wouldn't have mattered. Steve was long gone, and Princess Shuri was here. And in so many ways, she suited him so much better. New and bright and smart and so not Hydra.. That’s right. James didn’t need Captain America. A Wakanda Princess. Now that was someone to hold on to. Would have been.

All he had had to do was _not fuck it up_.

“In the best and most capable hands on the planet.” Shuri agrees, neutrally. Neutrally, but not angrily. She blinks, swallows visibly, then looks back up to meet his eyes. “You should realise, you’re free to go, but if you want..” 

Compartmentalization, rationalization, and an offer of another chance. James can hardly believe it; nearly disregards her obvious signs. The hope in her eyes. The openness in her posture. Had James done enough to turn the tides, to requisite his earlier mishap? With one sentence and a moment of honesty? It didn’t seem likely. Yet, Shuri shows no sign of rage or righteous fury; seems to be honestly offering the proverbial olive branch. Not about to spew vitriol at him, or call security to set him off on his way. 

Far from it, her expression has turned sad with perhaps a hint of longing. With a sigh she stands; hand raising a moment to hover and fall. Like she was about to reach out. Familiar. A little too much perhaps. Then again, apparently James has spent the better part of two years dead to the world while she worked on his brain. Often. Possibly daily. In his proximity, staring at his face. His body? Thinking of him.. 

Feelings are a funny thing. Once they start flowing, they are hard to stop. LIke a damn broken, or a river cutting it’s path. Or, so James has been taught. So, perhaps he can still have his chance. Perhaps he can still set this straight. That's right. Aim high. Hw puts on a self-deprecating half-flirting grin. "But, if I want, _what_?"

He has her; in that moment. He can tell. The fire rises behind her eyes again, and her voice fills with passion. "Me and Stark have been working on a new arm for you. Well; we both put some designs together...”

She talks heatedly. Vehemently. James knows the type. In love with her work; no, _smitten_ with it. Does she mean it as an opportunity? Is this a test? A chance to salvage the situation? He doubts it; for all her sharp wit and brains, this one is hardly more than a child still. But, James looks over the design for a new arm with her. Lets her talk him through the specs, and watches her whole being alight with pride and joy. After more than an hour she visibly reigns herself in. “Well, I guess that’s the basics. I’ll let you take the info with you and set you up in your room. You can choose one when you’re ready. If you want it...”

The Princess trails off. Apparently she has crossed some line in the sand she had set herself. Feels she is pushing, past what is appropriate. Which is cute. And with that they have crossed from her expertises to James’s field. “No need. I’ve already made my decision.”

He scrolls to the right page, already proficient enough after watching Shuri work. He finds the right page, stares at the 3d mockup accompanying the text. Black, with gold accents. A jewel, really. Not a weapon. Though he doesn’t doubt it’s strong; capable. Deadly. No matter. “This one.” he tells her.

And he’s got it right; done this much right at least. Because her face opens up to that radiant smile once again. “You sure? I made that one. It’s my favourite too actually.”

James smiles back. He knew that. 


	2. breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> say yes. just say yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi my lovely readers. with all the quarantine mess I figured you'd all like to read a bit. Sorry I'm a slow updater. I don't have a lot of time plus I usully redo my pieces like 20 times. in fact, I feel I might be jumping the gun on this one. I've only read it start to finish 2-3 times now...

Shuri’s still setting up in the private brunch room when James is let inside by her Dora guards. Scrubbed clean and looking fresh in a white shirt and light jeans, and a lot healthier after what must have been his first solid night of sleep in a long while. With a quick glance at her beads Shuri sees he’s early but not overly so, which means the third person invited is _late_. And that’s odd, because her new bff is punctual to a fault. Still, Shuri covers her surprise, stepping his way with a welcoming smile. “Morning, Barnes.”

He answers with his own tug of the lips, though there’s a hint of a question in there. And as he wonders her way Shuri is again caught by how normal he seems. Almost average. “Good morning, Princess.” Always just a little too much respect, but watered down by a royal helping of familiarity. “What’s this then? Don’t have to get creative on my account. I’m not traumatized by _tables_ or anything.” 

“Hardly,” she drawls right back, play-mocking his accent. Her earth red long shirt waves around her palms as she gestures at the frilled cushions on the floor, arranged around a low table piled with food. Rich gold accents in fruits and breads, dark meats and white and red sauces. It’s a feast for the eyes and nose already, she thinks; glittering in the morning sun. “This happens to be an authentic traditional breakfast arrangement.” The excuse sounds a little weak in her own ear, so she adds. “I thought you’d be interested in our culture.”

He still looks doubtful, but approaches when she arches an eyebrow. And, after her example, kneels down on one of the many pillows almost gracefully. It’s baffling, how he moves through a room somehow looking like he belongs without any of the presumptuous belonging-like-he-owns-the-place. Just someone there; someone who _should_ be there and is of no notice; whose absence would draw more eyes. The fact that he’s the first white man ever welcomed here, the fact that she _knows_ he’s big and built like bricks, the fact that a one-armed man sticks out.. None of that seems to register when he moves. Odd. 

No; not odd. It’s a carefully crafted image. She knows. A mirage built by evil people to hide a killer. Of course, she does not blame this man. But, it keeps _nagging_ at her. She brings a freshly manicured thumbnail to her mouth, ruining a Dora-friend’s hard work as she wonders: is he doing it on purpose? Blending? Belonging? Presenting nothing out of the ordinary? Catering to expectations? Or, it is ingrained at this point, as natural as breathing...

He does it again. Cougs, mildly. Getting her attention, meeting her eyes halfway between demur and flirting. “Is this a breakfast date then, Princess? I am flattered. But, surely…”

“I have better things to do? Oh, I would. But it’s not _just a breakfast date._ ” She pauses, shakes her head then trails off in a narrowing of eyes, trying to phrase it right. Because with just the two of them, it really does seem like some sort of date. And that’s.. wrong.. Isn't it? Unprofessional. Though, she usually gives zero fuck about what others think. Still, she finds herself bunching up the excess fabric of the shirt in her fists at her knees, pushing the deep reds against the burnt umber pants. Enjoying the textures, the way the red and brown play off each other in light and shade. No, right now she’d like to come off as professional. Finally, she meets his expectant gaze. “No, this is _work._ I need to map your taste buds.”

There’s an adorable little crease between his eyebrows that she already noticed of course, staring at his frozen face while she worked on the trigger words. It deepens just a fraction when he considers, just shy of embarrassment. “Mapping my..”

Aaand. That’s enough of that. _Seriously girl!_ She chastises herself. _The guy is like, old enough to be your.. Well, five-generations removed grandpa._ Though, well, you wouldn’t say that to look at him. Thirty? Thirty-five? She’s not good at guessing. Aren’t white guys _bald_ by that age? Probably. So, not old like _twice-her-age-old_ or anything. Nope. Stop Shuri, Stop! “Don’t hurt your just-defrosted brain over figuring it out. I’m just trying to fit all those groovy new arm sensors on something except pain reception.”

“Oh.” James turns away slightly, back straightening out as he faces the table. With that hint of flirting gone, he just looks embarrassed. “You really don’t have to..”

“It’s a fascinating area of technology, do you know?” She cuts right over him, hard and angry. Not _at_ him. But. Bast, she will not let foolish pride stand in the way of doing what she _promised._ “Input mapping. Can I make your arm _smell?_ Can I make it _taste?_ Oh, I can make it like you taste its input _in your mouth_. But we don’t want that, obviously.”

Shuri misses her intended purpose by a mile. Something shutters off behind James’ eyes, and he simultaneously seems to grow and shrink. Like the life went out of him and all that’s left is a statue. Bigger than life yet empty. “Ah. Okay.” Like he knows and understands this line of reasoning. Accepts it. And that was her _point_ of course. That’s why she _said_ it. But now.. now she’s sorry. Because it’s not _okay_ , is it? Makes her feel worse than dirty, put in the same group of scientists that would cut a creature open just to see if they could fix it. Yet, this time she reels that anger back in. Shifts forward a little, toward where she’s sat down just out of her reach. Notices now how still he keeps himself.

It’s a fine line she’s walking. Getting him to accept kindness, without completely alienating what she likes to think of as his true self. And Shuri was never much good at pussy-footing. No; she’s more the hard-burn type. Hell, if she’d been having breakfast with her brother - who she loves more than much anything in the world- she’d be cutting him up into pieces. Right now. But. but, _this_ boy does not deserve that. Might not be able to handle that. She is so out of her depth! Still, the tries again, with a kind smile and soft eyes; scoots a little closer even. “You won’t even notice any sensors the way I set it up. You just have to try all this delicious food I’ve let be prepared.”

Apparently, the damage is easily undone: he grins that half-grin again, the one hinting at sarcasm; thaws and flows her way almost imperceptibly; a slide of a knee and a curve of his spine. “ _Really?_ That’s all?”

“Well,” She admits, relieved and pleased with her small victory. And she stage-whispers, like they’re skipping class or stealing kisses behind the school gym. “I was hoping to have Wanda here too. She’s getting pretty good with sensing things. But..” She looks at her beads one last time for a message; an apology and a promise to be over within a few minutes. Still, no word. Disappointing. But, Shuri is a woman grown. And also a genius. She can do this on her own.

James sucks in a breath, rearranging himself to a cross-legged position as he shifts her way again with rapt attention.”Wanda’s still here?”

“Yes?” She dismisses, confused by her own annoyance. “I told you. She helped with your deprogramming...” She cannot help but wince at the word. But what else to call it? “She promised she’d help. But I guess she got caught up in her search mission again.”

“Mission?” Insteads of letting go, Barnes digs into this; she’s almost certain he’s doing it on purpose. “What mission?” 

Shuri picks at the food a moment, choosing a lychee and popping it into her mouth. James just stares at her; apparently unaware of her prompt to start eating. With a sigh, she gives in. “You’ll remember the spy, the one Barton shot? Well, we tracked his origins to a training facility in a desert region in Nambia.”

Taking up a small dish of salty treats, she munches on one slowly, then extends the dish James’ way. Pauses, until he finally reaches in and takes one too. With a triumphant smile, she carries on. “But, it was abandoned. We finally found out there must have been a transport to Washington DC at some point. But, we can’t find how or when or where they disappeared to on that side.”

He stops chewing for a fraction of a moment, and there’s something there. Not shock. More like he doesn’t emote for a moment. Still, Shuri hesitates to ask. “You you know.. Anything?”

“Know?” he grins, though it looks nearly painful this time. “Where a bunch of Hydra insurgents disappeared to in DC?” With a shrug his expression morphs to a true smile; something weirdly uncaring. “Not unless they are at that bank fault.”

Oh, right. That must be a painful subject. Shuri could kick herself in the head for that one. Tries again, in consporational tones and with a smile, like what worked before. “Well, let’s forget about that for now. Eat. Get comfortable. Relax.”

James double-takes. Blinks. “Okay. yeah. Sure.” She gets a first full-blown smile and wonders if all the others were just fakes. Then he really surprises her, reclining on his side, leaning on one elbow to look up at her. “How’s this?”

And it’s like a tension she hadn’t noticed before is just _gone._ Shuri takes a moment to cross her legs, then shrugs, staring him down with an arched eyebrow. “Are you comfortable?”

“More comfortable than I’ve ever remember being in my life.”

“Good.” She grinned, pleased with herself. She must have done something right. Passed some test she wasn’t even aware she was taking. “So, what would you like to try first?”

“Surprise me.”

She gives him a half-hearted attempt at a tjoerie, sucking in air through her teeth, then considers the assortment in front of her. Deciding supersoldiers probably need to pack away big calories, she picks the sweet flat-bread with mutton paste first, lifts the small plate his way with a gesture. His face drops just a fraction. Blinks, then looks down on the elbow currently bearing his full weight. His one elbow. One elbow. One arm. 

Shuri blinks back, sighing again, cursing the traitorous fluctuation in her tummy. “You have got to be joking.”

“Sorry! Sorry.” He scrambles; all the earlier grace gone. Slips on his way back to sitting, pillows skidding off as he nearly falls on his face. 

“No, it’s fine.” Shuri hears herself say before she knows it to be true. “I don’t mind.”

Shuri twists deftly, happy she’d told her Dora to stand guard outside for this. They would not approve. Yet, she herself; well. What’s the harm? In a weird way, it’s kind of invigorating. Like she’s doing something naughty. But, it’s not that bad is it? Just a little hand feeding. Nothing like, sexual. Why is her tummy fluttering like this though? Though, she had to admit, he’s kind of handsome. In an outlandish sort of way. And so much more alive now. The open eyes add a lot to the attraction. Shuri always did like blue, she supposes. At least his hue; dark and rich. It’s not before she feels his breath on her finger, watches his lips open to teeth. Observing him biting down on the delicate bread before she remembers...

Her brother had learned a long time ago not to try and keep things from her. Not since young T’Challa had tried to encrypt a rather damning diary entry about his first crush on his beads (what are you writing brother? -none of your business, sister. Don't bother trying to find out. Spirits be damned had he really _dared_ her to try and hack his beads?). She’d hacked the hell out of that and teased the poor teen with his teacher-crush for weeks. 

Now, instead T’Challa had provided his sister with all the documentation Wakanda’s tech team had managed to retrieve. Made a summary with only the facts she’d need, and given her a friendly reminder that she didn’t need to read it all. Something she had agreed on only a few pages in. still, she’d read enough. 

Subjects _bites._ Subject _unwilling to cooperate_ . Subject _refuses nutrition._ Short, clinical language, usually followed by an entry a few days later. Countermeasures successful. Shuri nearly chokes when his lips brush her fingers on the last bite. “Don’t you mind?” 

“Mind what?” James looks relaxed, for once. Totally at ease. And, Shuri realises she is getting to witness something special. If there’s something nearly smug in his expression she can hardly bear it mind. “To be fed delicacies by a princess while reclining on a pillow fort? I suppose I’ll manage.”

Shuri picks up the fruit bowl. “First one is tamarind. Close your eyes and open wide. Tell me which one was your favorite at the end.”

He picks the Guava, which is her favorite of course. She cannot figure out how he _knew_. 


	3. 3 morning grooming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> james has a nice bath in the morning and tries to make some friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> greetings friends, hope this all finds you in the best of health. <3 a little thing to take your minds off your day-to-day.   
> I worked on this all week; it's not an easy thing to pull back the curtain on this thing at the right pace. (I hope I did it) So please let me know how you felt about it.

James lives in a state of bliss. He’s made it to paradise and hooked himself in good. Wakanda; the promised land. A day in and he’s feeling like a king in his castle. Well; not the  _ actual _ king. The actual king is of course, T’Challa. A hard-working saint of a man that seems as deeply involved in his people’s daily troubles as geopolitical tensions. No, James is more like the king’s couch-crashing lazy friend from his college days. The one that dropped out and fell off the maps, and has now drifted back from obscurity with a scruffy beard, matted long hair, and only one arm. 

No matter. Looking at the grand scheme of things, he’s got it made. James has his own rooms, filled with closets and furniture and appliances and all sorts of things. It’s more like an indoor house really. There’s a kitchen, stocked with supplies and food-stuffs and all sorts of novel machines to make the preparation easy. Not that James is expected to fend for his own meals; he had an outstanding invitation for a public dinner and when he opted to stay in, several meals were delivered, still piping hot and fresh.

Adjacent lies a dining room with a table big enough to seat a whole swat-team. At least two guest rooms; two more that have no _ actual  _ beds, but James wouldn’t know what else to use them for, so he’s guessing those should be counted as well.

And everything, everything is opulent and comfortable and perfect. Couch cushions that sink around his fingers without losing any of their ergonomic seat-shape when he presses his hand into them. A TV the size of a small suv lining his one windowless wall. Pillars of dark marble breaking the overbearing size of the rooms. Floor-to-ceiling windows that open easily, marble walls cooling what the sun beams heating plush carpets. 

But best of all he likes the bathroom. Something of moderate size, with only one door and a feeling of privacy born from blinded windows and no discernible surveillance. Outfitted with the greatest gifts of modern man: his very own shower and a private bathtub. Oh yeah. He thinks back in the day  _ showers _ were the novelty. And, yes; when he tried it yesterday, James had to agree. Much as he has his reservations on showers in general, the one in his magical Wakanda bathroom certainly is one; a marvel. With settings ranging from a sprinkling of rainwater down from the ceiling to scalding torrents fired from the lengths of all four corners poles. It was, in one word, an experience. Stunning.

But James had enough excitement yesterday, so for today he takes an old-fashioned bath. 

Well, small amendment: old-fashioned bathtubs were  _ nothing _ like  _ this _ back in his day. The backrest vibrates and kneads his muscles. There are pulsing water muzzles and bubbles.. It’s great. Except the bubbles. They are loud in his ears and cool the water, and James likes it extra hot. Not that there’s no easy fix: he simply adds more hot water while he bubbles and relaxes. After washing his hair for a third time, he decides, fuck it and adds shampoo straight to the water to make it foam. 

James sinks back with a sigh, enjoying the heat and bubbling cacophony while he considers the Wakanda Princess. An angel made flesh. She is beautiful and smart and human and kind. How lucky could he get? Oh, he knows she can be fiesty. He knows she is powerful; a whole country of magic warriors at her feet. He knows she‘s a doctor and a scientist and all doctors are sadists; all scientist  _ psychopaths _ . And  _ prodigies  _ are the worst _ , always looking to prove themselves. _

Shuri is not like that. Nothing like the Hydra girls; willing to turn their ambition into ruthless cruelty, just to be allowed into the old-boys club. Nothing like the Ruski women either; hard and jaded and unwilling to show anyone a hint of mercy, least of all themselves. 

No; Shuri is a princess; a sheltered kind soul. She may have a sharp tongue at times, but that’s just the kid in her putting on a brave face. Determined to draw first blood with a quirk of the lips and a teasing lilt in her voice, when she knows she is out of her depth. Putting her fears into words so they will lose their power over her.

Yes; that’s how she would think. Her faith is strong: in herself and in her own. Her fears are beautiful; as beautiful as the woman who speaks them: when she explained her cryogenic procedures in gruesome detail, she needed his consent. When she taunted with her superiority she was checking her own ethics. When she complained about Barton, she was taken up by that universal question on right and wrong. Yes; James need not worry. Shuri is straight as an arrow. True, good. And, most importantly, loyal. 

Along the tub and on shelves above him are all sorts of bottles and boxes lined up and because he’s not a caveman, James knows what conditioner is and how to use it. He spends some time getting the tangles out, trying out different combs and brushes. Then decides to just randomly open some boxes to try. There’s salts and oils in bright colors and hard smells and perhaps James is a caveman after all because he dumps in three different kinds and a big ball of something that dissipates in the water making it fizz.

James almost misses how it hisses and bubbles, with the bubblebath and the running water and the suds, not to mention water slurping down the safety drain at the top. James is probably overdoing it. But Shuri said it’s fine to indulge a little. And with the example she set at breakfast, setting a benchmark for  _ indulging a little, _ James doubts he could indulge a lot even if he tried.

It’s hard at this point to consider he thought Shuri was  _ mean _ only a few days back. Well; in truth it had actually been about two years ago. Which, for once, felt about right. Still, to James, he had gone to sleep one night, trying desperately for some pact with a girl who set so many of his warning lights blinking inside his skull it felt like the fourth of july just to look her in the face. But now, he had woken and...

Well, that much had remained the same, he guessed. It was just the reason for those feelings had flipped one-eighty. Wariness to attraction, distrust into faith, fight-or-flight into.. Hmmm. No; best not go there. Not yet. Shuri is hardly more than a girl. A human girl at that. Not like him and Steve. And he’d even scared Stevie off, hadn’t he? Acting impulsively. That would not be happening again.

No; this time James will just follow her lead. Carefully. Check the signs. Aim to please. And perhaps he takes it a little far sometimes, tries a little too hard. But if he’s got the strength of four men in one arm, is expected to eat for five, and has the memories and skills of at least six.. Well, he thinks he’s allowed a few extra bathing products. Besides, he gets a little kick out of the thought of all of this having been replaced by the time he comes back here in the evening. He likes to imagine a Dora or a palace guard or sometimes T’Challa himself coming in here and tisk at the mess James left, then having it all fixed and ordered for him at a snap of the fingers. 

He does not imagine Shuri witnessing the disarray, because he would not like to imagine letting her down. No; James means to be extra careful with this gift; wonderful young woman who has taken a shine to him. Because James could tell; he’d always been especially good at that. Shuri had a little crush on him. She was  _ sweet _ on him. And James knows the girls, the good ones, they all want the same thing: Play hero and safe the one they love. Whether they play nurse or mom or superwoman. Shuri is well aware she is special though; she’ll want to play all at once.

James ponders while he lies submerged with only his face sticking out, breathing in deep, listening to the sounds of the running water and the bubble and relaxes into the pressure of bubbles and water torrents. Blood pulsing in his veins, sweat flowing in streams around his stubbornly open eyes, mingling with the water. He refuses the urge to stick a foot out into cool air for another minute, two. It’s great. He could do this all day. But James has another breakfast engagement with the most wonderful person on the planet. No; better yet. With her and her _ family. _ Oh, he would not want to keep  _ them  _ waiting. 

He stands, fresh air hitting him from all sides and vision blurring to black. Which was stupid; to be expected. Low blood sugar or that relaxing thing got his heart rate down further then he’d noticed. Still, this is nothing. Means nothing. He waits for it, silently. Wobbling for balance; there is no need to put his hand to the tiled wall besides him. There is no need. The black fades away to spots dancing in front of his eyes and proves him right. With a relieved sigh, he steps out of the oversized tub, dragging white boots of suds. 

The air feels fresh against his skin but his bones are finally warm, so for once it’s a pleasant sensation. A quick glance around tells him the thing he wants now is not here.v So he disregards the two stacks of towels and the special one laid out and warmed on a rack. Instead, he walks out and into an empty corridor lined with open doors showing him his many unused rooms. A library, with old-fashioned paperbacks, a study, an entertainment and theatre room. All perfect and empty places he has yet to step inside of. 

Naked and trailing sud and bathwater he moves, deliberately loud on carpets and black marble panels alike. Until he finally finds what he was looking for: the world’s biggest, fluffiest towel. Left where he’d discarded it yesterday evening. Still on the floor on the far side of the ridiculously oversized bed. Silly him; he should have remembered. Or, well. He kind of did. 

The one other door in the room is his next stop. A walk-in wardrobe that is the size of an apartment. Full of clothes in every style and function imaginable -and, quite a few James would never have dreamed of. After a luxurious amount of rubbing and perhaps a slightly theatric bit of stretching, yawning and scratching, James drops the towel and steps inside. The lights inside turn on smoothly, as the plays his fingers over the racks. A type of shirt catches his eye. It must be something traditional and he can see that wearing it is going to require a knot. It’s not a knot he’ll be able to manage one-handed. But, it will be worth the trouble, because it is  _ exactly _ the same shade of red Shuri wore yesterday. 

And it’s not like there’s no one he can ask: because, and here’s the kicker. Right out there, in every direction, he’s surrounded by some very grumpy, very much trying to re-prove themselves Dora. And, they’re actually  _ actively _ keeping him safe here. There’s the Royal Guards too, no doubt just as aware that the Winter Soldier is once more awake, active and staying three doors down from the entire royal family. Aware that the last time he was this close to their King, James had nearly been triggered by an insurgent. 

No, with this he supposes he can trust the entire Wakanda system to be extra careful. James just prefers women. They make better guards, in his opinion. Keeping someone safe comes just a little more natural to them, is a little more pleasant under their watch; costs little less. On average of course; exceptions must be made, and he has always been flexible in this. Regardless, James feels a lot saver knowing there’s at least two glaring at him from their hidden perches outside his windows.

In fact, when James steps back out into the main bedroom and towards the wall-length mirror with his chosen outfit in hand, he gives one of them a wave and a smile when he passes by her best sight line.

Apparently that’s not the right thing to do at all: she freezes; fails to respond to her partner on her earpiece, who hails her twice. Before James turns away as he continues on, he sees her wide eyes narrow in annoyance. And, finally, when he’s already staring at his own reflection, a curt call of “ndiyayazi” in Xhosa. Which, he hopes she realises, is an easily translated curse.

Well, that’s a bit of a disappointment. Apparently he was supposed to be unaware of them? Now she will probably work twice as hard to stay hidden on her next shift. And James is going to have to remember her heartbeat and breathing pattern and her personal sounds of movement so he doesn’t ‘see’ her again by mistake. James is not sure why they bother. Without his arm he cannot tell exactly where all the hidden cameras are, but there’s sure to be  _ many _ . If they mean to stay undetected they would have a lot more success spying on him digitally. 

Well, now they  _ definitely _ hate him. Though, it’s hardly his fault he can hear any distinct heartbeat at the other side of the palace when he tries. That he can feel tremors of people stepping and moving from the floor and walls. Smell and taste so much more on the air.. With a shrug James manages his shorts and the pair of silk soft pants he selected with his one hand.

He supposes the Dora had enough reasons to hate him, before he went and slighted them like this by calling into questioning their abilities. Perhaps they still do not believe he had nothing to do with the previous king’s murder? Perhaps they have realised he spies and listens in on them at night when he lies in opulent, ridiculous bed? Do they know he’s learning their secret language and their codes and mysteries? Perhaps they too have noticed their young Princess’ budding attraction and disapprove? 

Well, whatever their reasons, he’s going to have to fix this. It’s not like James actually  _ minds  _ the Dora distrusting of him. He even agrees with the overall sentiment; a little paranoia goes a long way. But, having them hate him as a group is going to be a problem. Especially with how close Shuri is with the warrior women. He’ll need to make some friends among them. Better for everyone. And one can never have too many friends, James considers as he spends lengthy minutes running his fingers through his hair. 

He should just go out and ask the Dora hiding outside his door. If he pretends not to know she is there, and just walks out into the hall calling for some help she will probably come out without anyone losing face. Not that it’d even matter if he upset her. James can work with that, as well. All he needs is a little time and some interaction. Half a chance. 

James knows he can grow on anyone if given the chance. He is a good friend. One of the best. Everyone has always agreed. He’ll get her to help, she can hardly refuse to help him with something as innocuous as tying his shirt. He is, after all, the King’s guest. James throws the earth-red shirt over his shoulder,turns at the door once to stare at his reflection; tries that crooked grin again. It’s hardly as innocent as he’d like it to be, but it’s getting better all the time. 


	4. family at the table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shuri's family is awesome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys! thanks for all the kind words. I worked really hard on getting this out quick; but it's still not too fast. because it needs a lot of work to get the tone and speed right. i think I got it this edit around :) but let me know!

James arrives at breakfast fashionably late, in vogue with Wakanda’s casual dress, and more out of place and noticeable than he’s ever been. He enters straight through the center of the wide doors, with his own private Dora announcing his name. Mohai; his new friend. What luck the Dora standing guard outside his quarters was  _ also _ the one whose spear he had borrowed. Back when he was chasing the insurgent, or better said chasing  _ Steve,  _ who was chasing the insurgent. It feels like a life-time ago, now. But of course, that is what happens after cryo. One chapter closed, another started. A better one, he hopes.

The Dora’s name is Mohai. And she had been quite upset with him still. Small surprises there; a Dora without a spear is an unarmed Dora. So, the woman had practically missed the whole chase. Apparently that had been the most exciting thing to happen in the palace in a long time. And Mohai had missed it. Still a connection was a connection and there had been enough excitement for everyone when James had been in cryo. An usurper to the throne and a civil war and everything. And that time Mohai had been part of the action, and James had listened to her retelling and understood as only he can— putting into words and validating the sped-up of her heart in excitement here, the turn of her voice and the smell of frustration there. She is no longer upset with him.

Of course, that one was easy. This, here, would be the big test. Breakfast with the family: four people look up from their meal and discussion at the high table: the two Royal siblings, General Okoye and a dignified older woman seated diagonally opposite of the King. James pauses on the threshold dutifully and gives his best grin. Inspects the room without looking. _ These  _ are the people he really needs to befriend.

Not the King; T’Challa publicly proclaimed he owed James a depth, and this is not the kind of man to go back on his word easily. Not Okoye either; not now. Though he understands the need to win her favor; has already read how close she and Shuri are from those few interactions he’s witnessed, he would not know where to begin. Her distrust of him is palpable and the kind of grand gestures or unbreakable vows that might change her mind are beyond what he has to offer. Perhaps at a different time, in a different setting, but not today.

No; it is the older woman who can only be the queen mother that he needs to impress: Sure, privately Shuri might like him well enough. Still, right now he is just a project. He will remain one until Shuri has replaced his missing arm. After that, he can only guess. The Scientific mind is soon bored of a project, and James would sooner be of other interests than prodding and soldering. He thinks he has her though; he can make her smile and sometimes laugh and she looks at him with more than casual interest. Still, just in the way Shuri is angled towards queen Ramonda tells him she will listen to her mother on this. If the mother takes offence.. Well, being put to pasture might not be so bad here. They’ve surprised him before.

Still stuck on the threshold, James realises he might have waited too long. They are staring and it’s getting awkward. He is not unused to the scrutiny. A lot of his hits have been done in plain sight. Right in the open, without anyone realising. James felt like a magician at times. Eyes one the hands; but of course, other times like a germ or, again at other times like a prize. He’s considering doing a little bow, or even a curtsy because that might make Shuri smile; or it would had it been just the two of them. What is she even expecting in this setting? He really wishes she’d have explained. Now he’s left guessing again.

But T’Challa is already waving him over, saving him from making any damning decisions too soon. James answers T’Challa’s smile with his own, and choses the seat straight from him —which, ideally, puts him between Shuri and the stately woman. He smiles at her as well; careful and questing, and she hides a grin behind a cup of koffie. Not the worst beginning, James thinks.

If T’Challa is offended he does not show it. Simply sits back and angles to the side a bit so he can see past the artistically sculpted mount of pastries, and asks. “So, James. How are you faring post-freeze? I hope you slept well?”

James imagines Bucky would be considered out of his depth here, in this setting and surrounded by royalty. And the ironic thing, James he supposes, is that he _ is _ out of his depth, immersed in a culture he doesn’t know and for once incapable of just blending in. So he supposes he’s near honest when he gives the kind of polite grin that glitches a little, with just a bit too wide of a look around before with complete but vague honesty. “Everything has been completely  _ wonderful, _ thank you.”

T’Challa hums, pleased. And that appears all that is demanded of him because James is left to his own devices while they speak amongst themselves. With an inward sigh James gets to filling his plate without drawing any further notice; just sits straight-back and still while eating one-handedly. At least the cutlery is simple enough. James isn’t sure what he’d do in a french setting with only a right hand and all his forks to his left. People tend to respond badly enough when he picks up a knife without actually trying to cut anything one-handed.

So he sits and studies. One can learn a lot about people by how they surround themselves. And, for a royal family, this is doubly true when looking at their private settings. Often, a palace itself is a heirloom, and the way a throne room is furnitured is more about catering to expectation than personal taste. This, this is what these people  _ chose _ . And where Shuri’s lab is hers, this can only be the queen’s hand in decoration. The one thing that surprises James here is that it is in perfect alignment with the rest of the palace. Still an overwhelming setting, but Wakanda is never gaudy or fashy. Technology and wealth are simply fully integrated, in a way that is modest and practical but aggravatingly tasteful. There is honesty in that, to a level that James considers rare in a person of power.

Then again perhaps he should have expected. Wakanda is different in every way so far; better, he would not mind saying. Even if they have a flair for dramatics. Still, it is jarring to realise that the entire Wakandan government apparently really lives by its own amendments.

Of course, the real work is reading the room. The way people’s bodies are positioned, how they pause when someone interrupts. It is surprising really, how well they listen to the other. Discuss on equal footing. The King is surrounded by women, but he hardly lords over them. Though they appear to leave the final decisions to him easily enough. There is, or course, one who gets more reverence than any other in the room. And James is sitting next to her for that very reason. He’s done it before. Impress a court, woo a queen. It’s not hard. Just sit pretty and be interesting and available. She will take interest at some point.

James eats slowly, using T’Challa for reference, while he studies the mother. Her eating habits: light, green fare, while her daughter has a liking for eye catching creations and sugared treats. Two opposites, at a glance. But looking at her beautifully refined grey dress and perfect hair, James is going to make the educated guess that the mother is watching her weight. Her impeccable manners suggest she married into royalty, so her late husband was the lineage carrier.

“Was your other friend not coming, daughter?” fine mannerisms, a benevolent smile. The perfect picture of a queen. Shuri shrugs, distracted by a message popping up on her beads. “Ye, but she was supposed to join me yesterday as well. Guess she forgot again. She’s probably caught up with that spy thing.”

Sliding back his chair just a hair so the two women can see each other without his face in the way, James wonders why it is exactly they are speaking in English. Is it for his benefit? Or are they afraid he’ll pick up their Wakandan which is supposed to be a secret. James cringes a little inside. If that’s why they are both giving him too much credit, and not enough. He is supposed to be good at forgetting, but languages just stick to him. And, honestly; he can’t really turn off the part that wants to learn. Languages were usually considered a useful, innocent pursuitand it’s an ingrained habit by now. 

“Spy thing? I thought  _ that nice girl  _ was checking the borders from the dream-world.” then the queen turns towards him, and in an unprecedented move pulls him into their conversation. “Wanda has a talent you see, and it turns out that it fits well with our traditional dream-world.”

James nearly chokes; because he had assumed he had been dismissed before, and if business would come around to him it would be at the end of the agenda. He had expected all he had to do was sit there and eat for a long time before the queen would bother to acknowledge him. Or, she’d pretend because she is supposed to be important and busy? Yet her expression is nothing but kind and honest and inclusive. James answers with a little bit too much gusto. “Dreamworld? That’s where you meet with Wakanda ghosts, right? Wanda goes there?”

The queen’s smug expression tells him she noticed but doesn't mind the unwarranted amount of enthusiasm. “Why, yes. There are some more old-fashioned dreamers who are not as pleased as we with her aptitude. Still, it is amazing. She can travel the entire country in the blink of an eye.” she turns a little closer, as if to conspire with him. “Proverbially speaking of course. She needs to be sleeping for it to work, just like the rest of us.”

“I am still not too happy with this way of working.” T’Challa cuts in, pensively twining his fingers over his plate. “Okoye, has there been any progress by the wardogs in Washington?”

The Dora General, left of the king, makes an unhappy sound. “Nothing much. They got permission to check the vault again, under the bank. There are some signs that someone  _ might _ have been living there, perhaps as little as a year ago. There has possibly been a struggle around the time of the projected leak, but.. That’s all.”

And, well that settles what James had already suspected. That the agent sent for him was his own dumb fault. He should never have asked his Pestúnka what to do about the Balck Panther hunting him. James isn’t even sure why he bothered; it’s not like a nurse would know how to evade a mythical warrior king. He supposed he’d just needed some direction. Which was, well. Stupid. Almost as stupid as zoning out now; it should be obvious to him by now these people want a little more out of him the average seen-not-heard. And still, James goes and does it, and now everyone is looking at him. Hard; questionly. “What?”

It’s nearly a croak. But, at least T’Challa softens the scrutiny with an upturn of the lips. “We were just wondering if you know anything that could help?”

“I doubt it, sorry.” well; Shuri asked him not to think about it. “Well, I’ve been there, obviously. But, well it was a long time ago.” It makes him feel like a traitor twice over, but it’s better this way. The leak that happened was a year back. If his Pestúnka is dead he cannot save her, and any damage to Wakanda has long since run its course. 

The king is still frowning, pushing for more. `’The Jabari tribe would vehemently contest an outsider’s right to enter. If they find out..”

“The old gorilla’s protest any advancement in science, whenever they get the chance. Let’s not tell them, so there will be no harm done.” Shuri flicks her hair around and gives everyone equal measure of her naughty grin. Rescued once again, James lets it warm him, as long as he can, basking in the afterglow. He thinks he can nearly smile for real.

Until he notices T’Challa, thumb working the seal ring on his finger. “You appear much changed, Sergeant. Happier. That is good...”

Though there is hesitance in the King’s voice, James plays all-in. Because, well this is a court. An audience; the mother, the brother, and their closest advisor right here. This is the best time for drama. The best time for a show. “How could I not be? I went to sleep after I realised two years of crawling my way out of hell had gotten me exactly nowhere, then woke up with an angel lifting me to safety,”

Shuri snorts; derisively. “That is, quite possibly, the  _ cornyest thing I’ve ever heard. _ ”

But it’s an amused snort; nearly a laugh. And so James hardly cares. You see, James has been saved before. By Steve, by the Russians, by Vasili, and later by his Widow, the Spider Queen. All people of repute; royalties in their own rights. All people who know and understand the use of something like him. Someone who can be anyone, anything. James might not be sure yet of what she would want him to be, but he thinks he is close. He can do it. 

“Well, either way, daughter, your friend missing doesn't sit well with me. Especially if she is dreaming.” the queen takes a slow sip of her coffee. “Okoye, will you send someone to check?”

And that is how they find out Wanda has been in a coma for two days. 


	5. visit a friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: hello my dear friends! I finally managed it ^^  
> this chapter had me stuck for a while but I cut off the bad part and it all turned out okay. I hope you enjoy this, and I hope this finds you safe and happy! <3
> 
> ps- I am assuming Shuri is 18 by this point. but yes, this ship has some issues. as they all do. it's kind of the point. let's just say that now, so you all know it won't all be rainbows and butterflies.
> 
> Additional Warnings: as we're slowly getting to know Bucky's head you'll notice he's not all ok. I wouldn't exactly say his worldviews are racist. But they are definitely colored by a racist organization.

Shuri marches into the Intensive Care room right on her mother’s heels. Hard and business-like. A woman on a mission, with only a hint of tension to her shoulders. The merest suggestion of a frown on her brow. James is impressed by the facade. Until she moves past her mother and intercepts the leading doctor, addresses her eagerly; nearly frantically: “What can I do?” 

The doctor smiles and offers a chart to the queen, then gestures at the large bed holding a shockingly small looking Wanda Maximov. “Nothing, my princess. Nothing but wait.”

The Red Witch. It strikes James how normal she looks, lying there. Human. Not even artificial; there’s nothing hooked up to her but a single line into a vein, no doubt to keep her hydrated. No beeping machines or breathing tubes or anything. But there’s probably a thousand machines set up to monitor her without any visible obtrusion. Wakandans do strike him as the type to take offence at the visual unpleasantries that go with sickness. 

Even the doctor is a pleasant looking woman, with a soft manner and well manicured hands. Her gestures are round and calming. Her voice is a whisper of kindness over steel nerves. James may well remember her, from before his nap in the ice. But perhaps all Wakandan doctors are just like this: motherly women unwilling to rush for any man, woman or princess. 

Shuri, not easily deflected, snorts. “It’s a coma, not a nap. Now, I’d like to start with scanning her brain waves.”

“Actually,” the doctor cuts in smoothly, “this is like a nap. Only she cannot wake up yet, because she is lost in her dreams. Please, princess, my queen. We have experience enough with dreamers getting lost to keep her body healthy and working for months if need be..

“Months?!” Shuri cuts herself off, tempers her volume. “Well, I think I can make sure _that_ won’t be necessary.”

James can feel the queen’s gaze slide past him where he lurks a little too close; like the princes’ shadow. She notes, catalogues and then dismisses him as _not a priority,_ and James counts this as a win. “Dear daughter, I feel your pain.” The queen closes in, puts a comforting arm around her daughter. 

“I have to do something.” Shuri admits, deflating.

The radiating smile the mother bestows on her daughter loosens something in James’s guts that does not belong there. It surprises him so much that he nearly loses the pleasant, vacant expression pointed at the pair.

The mother does not notice, eyes Shuri. “You can. Talk to her. Care. Your voice may bring her home.. I will convene with our dreamers and ask for them to look for her spirit.” with a smile and a delicate finger steering her chin back up, Ramonda is gone. Shuri drops down to a chair at Wanda’s side, takes her hand. She deflates even further. “She was going to check out around DC. No Wakandan spirit walker can go that far.”

James just grunts, though he makes it as empathic as he can. Steps closer, and tries not to seem too happy about this situation. This chance to get closer to his new best friend, Shuri. Well, James was never fond of the Witch. Wanda was not his friend. But she’s not _really_ Hydra, wasn’t ever really. So she _could_ have been. Perhaps. Scary as she is with her unwordly powers. 

Still, if it’s scary women he dislikes James is pretty sure he is falling hard for what his previous caretakers would consider their worst nightmare. Zemo would have had fits at the thought of putting a black woman in power. Would have proclaimed it as the end of the world. And; well. In some ways he wouldn’t have been wrong. It’s a shame she’s the peace-loving kind, really. James sits by her the rest of the day, and the next. And after that, Shuri is incapable of sitting still any longer.

He can see that sharp mind running, now. Needing a project. Shuri tries to get in on the meetings about Wanda’s healing. Thinks up the most outlandish science to help her. But apparently the dreamers are all of the same mind: this is one thing that should be waited out. Shuri is frustrated; angry. Obsessed sometimes. She plans and fumes, and James is her accomplice. At one point James lets it drop that he could help her spy on the old crones’s meeting next time and Shuri eagerly accepts his invitation.

James has a grand time scooting her over ledges and getting her safely outside the meeting room window. Circumventing security and making sure the window was ajar was harder but.. well, his new friend Mohai is happy to help with the window from inside. She is a good Dora, he figures. She would do almost anything for her princess.

“I would have become one of them.” Shuri tells him when prompted, on their way over the roofs. She is nimble and fast and her feet are sure on the tiles. He believes her. “Had it not been for my aptitude in science. I trained with them for many years. We are like sisters. Closer. We share almost anything.”

James had guessed as much. Still, he gives her a waggle of his eyebrows looking back over a shoulder. The wind is fresh up here, the sun already low. The ground is but a whisper of a memory here: far, far away. “You share everything? Weapons? Clothes? Nailpolish? _Boys..?_ ”

Shuri crunches up her nose, but keeps her eyes on her feet. Surefooted, but not suicidal. “Ew. not boys. But yes, everything else.”

And James grunts, wonders if that’s true. He cannot imagine; family is weird to him. Like a spouse but without the obligations. He wonders how it would work, what exactly they do for eachother. Doubts they know each other as well as she thinks; doubts it is possible to stay in touch with a hundred sisters. Then again, he has befriended only one, and as a whole they have been better to him. Why, just the other day, Okoye didn’t even scowl at him when she passed him in the hallway.

They spend a good half hour listening in on the meeting. But Shuri is not fitted for spy work, and honestly, there’s no news at all. She grows bored and he takes her back to her lab the long way around. The last jump down to the balcony outside her lab is a little high, so ever the gentleman James drops down first, and raises his single arm to catch her. 

She doesn’t even hesitate; and it’s so satisfying to be able to wrap around her; her cat-like form in all black like her brother’s suit, molding into his body as he wraps around her. He accommodates for the off-balance with sheer muscle power, a lurch to the left and a little bit of a-head-can-be-a-limb-too. And, yes, l he might hold on a little too tightly, a little too long before setting her down. But it’s been the best damn two weeks of his life and James hopes she knows.. There’s a light twinkling in her eyes. He thinks maybe she does. “What?” he asks, smiling down.

Shuri bites her lip; runs her tongue behind her teeth. He thinks he can see it longing to pass between her lips and reach for him. But she forces it down, and it’s gone. The moment, stolen as she casts her eyes down. Arms coming in around herself, an echo of how he held her. So well. Does she miss him, already? Or, is he pushing too hard. Scaring her away. “Think it’s high time we fix that arm on you.”

“What?” he pauses. “Why?” it seems so important. Irrelevant. But, just in time he remembers he wants it; should want it. “I mean.. What, _now?_ ”

She sighs, turns away. “I got to do something, James. This waiting is driving me mad. Besides, we would have done it by now if it wasn’t…” She pauses, remembers. The files. _His_ files. “You do still want it, don’t you?”

James does not like it when she remembers the files. “Of course I do. But, shouldn’t I.- I mean. I want to be here for you..”

Her lips thin over her teeth as she attempts a smile. “I know.” she’s close. So close, her hand comes up, hovering. Near his cheek. Nearly touching a loose strand there. James doesn’t breathe. “But don’t worry. From the numbers I got you’ll be up and about within a day of surgery.”

 _What surgery,_ his mind is screaming. _Weren’t you just going to put the new one in the old socket?_ Instead he smiles. “That fast, huh?”

“If you still want. Huh. your choice. I just.. Need to do something.” She pauses, sighs at herself with a shake of the head. “I’m being a brat. I just don’t know what’s wrong with me: I’m _bored_. I’m angry..” she tisks. “I just feel so useless. I can’t even sit on Wanda’s bedside and talk to her. Trying drives me up the walls.”

James takes her hand in his. Validates her feelings as he brings it close to his mouth to whisper. “It’s only natural. You are afraid. Watching her makes you feel..” All her feelings. He can pick them out. “Impotent. Incompetent. You’ve always been able to fix things with science. And this time they will not let you. You are frustrated. These feelings are normal. ” The line he follows takes him home easily enough. Guilt, at the end of it. “You should not beat yourself up over it. It is _because_ you care that you feel this way.”

Shuri does smile this time; eyes crinkling. But there’s tears right behind her lids. She fights to keep them at bay. “You think so?”

James has no clue either way; he can see the emotional play. Read it. But does that make her feelings normal? Would another person feel the same? The bulk of people he’s know, would not have. But they were hardly normal, and never good. Still, he tells her: “I know so.” And in feeling daring, sure in the moment, he puts a soft peck on the back of her hand. 

And he’s right; of course he is. Because she throws her arms around him and nuzzles against his neck. Then, hesitantly, she kisses his cheek. He does not turn to intercept her with his mouth. But it’s a close thing. It’s the right choice, when she puts her forehead against the same spot. “So I guess you want to wait?”

James is in heaven. Right choices are what he’s about. “Don’t be silly. You need a project. I need an arm.”

That gets her attention. She pulls away. And the loss of contact is nearly enough to make himself second-guess himself. “What? You’re sure?”

Of course he is. He would think about it; really he would. If there had been a choice at all. The arm has been waiting for him, a perfect beacon, for weeks now. A light-house, showing him the way. His way to Shuri, he thinks. And, she needs this. “I’m sure.”

“You know.. Sometimes I cannot believe you...” her voice is teasing but her expression is awestruck. “Aren’t you _scared?_ ”

James shrugs. “Not like I can remember any of the previous surgeries, so no. ”

“You know, Facebook would kill for that filter you’re running.” She knocks a hand to his shoulder and it stays there a moment too long. “You’re like ‘ _Im in this picture and I don't like it. Delete all related posts from my timeline._ ’”

The voice she does for that is adorable, and he chuckles, tries an innocent. “What?” 

“I mean sweet!” Shuri’s all business, all moving and planning. “I’ll get the lab set up. Should only take a day, maybe two.” God she’s amazing; James thinks he may love her, more than anyone before. So much brainpower.

“I’ll get the anesthetics in on this. I just got to have a little work done on the socket. Did you know the main part is already vibranium? Where did they get that?” 

She looks his way, almost like she needs an answer. And James fumbles. Actually gulps for air in some stupid reflex to answer her truthfully. It’s not even a secret. But vibranium comes from only one place and he does remember what the guy he took it from looked like. It doesn’t even matter; it was a long time ago. Would she hate him for such a little thing?

Luckily, she’s already turned away, going in from the balcony into her lab. He can hear her buzzing about as he trails behind her. “..a little upgrade on the joints and I’ll remove those counterweights, you won’t need them anymore.” 

And she’s back on track, mind like a laser-point focus. Well, how could he ever say no to her? She looks so happy. And he picked the right arm; just for her. And he waited long enough, he thinks. Nothing’s happened to the empty socket. His left arm isn’t going to grow back. That still confuses him. Why _doesn’t_ his left arm grow back..?


	6. Nap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James is under and has some good memories.  
> Added warnings: manipulation, dubious consent to mildly sexual situations. Bad vibes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my friends; my little family of readers. This is a past chapter. There will be only a few of those here and there. They are necessary for understanding. I hope you all dont mind. Shuri will be bsck next chapter!

The American puts down the heavy receiver, registering the odd weight of it. Artificial; some kind of bakaliet. It’s smooth and warm now, in his hand. Amazing, really, what they can do with technology. Speaking to someone on the other side of the ocean, on the other side of the  _ planet _ . And only a few seconds of lag between them. He’s thankful for the chance to get to use such a new, amazing device.

Too bad it is also completely useless.

As useless as a one-armed soldier. There’s a joke in there he can’t put together. Something about all the troubles these Ruskis have gone through, to get half an American without a name back to a mother whose face he can’t even remember. To a sister, or two. To a brother? And when they finally manage to narrow it down —despite his home country’s unwillingness to provide information; when he finally gets to speak to the woman most likely to be his mother; when he’s introduced as  _ possibly her missing son. _ . The woman that most likely put him on this world; the  _ one person _ that should have been ecstatic to get her boy back from the dead...

There’s a knock on the door. Maybe it’s not the first one. The American doesn't know for sure, and he calls out an embarrassed ‘yeah, come on in,’ and starts dragging himself back to his feet.

Yakov’s face drops the moment his droopy eyes spy him from the doorway. “Неудача.” The heavy-set Lieutenant follows up with some Russian cuss words, closing the door behind himself carefully. Gesticulates wildly as he does; something that still looks odd to the American when executed by such a serious looking Russian soldier. “Nono, none of that. You are still recovering. The good nurse at hospital still draws cross when I speak of you.”

The American sits back down hard, scoffs at Russian. “Isn’t that illegal where you come from?”

Sargeant Yakov shrugs, smiles lightly as he lumbers over in his heavy boots. “She is old and the border is still far off. I will not tell on her. Will you?”

The man with no name tries to return the expression, but it’s nearly too much. Who would he tell? He speaks a total of five words of Russian. Three of those are cusswords, one a word for a pretty girl. The last word is what the soldiers whisper when they see him pass.  _ нежитью. _

Yakov, ever observant, notices his struggle. “I am so sorry my friend. I thought we’d found your family this time.”

“It was a good try. Two brothers.” the American pauses to rub his hand over the bridge of his nose, looks away from the Lieutenant’s kind eyes. “Several sisters. But, no; that woman was definitely  _ not _ my mother.” He finds himself rubbing at his eyes; at the bridge of his nose.

Yakov stares down at him in contemplation, then sits down in the chair next to him. “No worries. We will keep looking.” A heavy hand hits the table. Then, with a slight frown, the Lieutenant prods a finger at his chest. “We still have a list. Many names. Many soldiers missing. Your family is out there. I know.”

But that’s not it. Not it at all. The man with no name stares at the table stubbornly trying to stay strong. But dear god, the woman on the line, who could have been his mother? She had cried with relief when it became obvious he was not  _ her John. _ “Yeah,” he tries, because he  _ understands _ why she would.

Two of her boys had come back from war. One in a wheelchair, the other missing an eye and half his mind. A third missing in action, no husband in the picture. The poor woman was at wit’s end on how to feed the pair as it was. And she had nearly got the whole set, with him.

Not a memory to his name, and his  _ arm _ .. Stupidly, he grabs the stump. It still hurts. Unlike his head. That was weird, right? The American lost the arm first. He knows because he can remember laying in his cage, burning up with fever as it festered and burns. Yet it is the last thing healing. “Maybe we should stop looking? It seems like a waste of resources.”

Yakov frowns, slowly scoots his chair back and stretches his legs under the table, crosses one over the other as he stares at the American from under his heavy brow. “I and the men would be _ happy _ to have you, but surely your family..”

_ Would be better off without him,  _ the American thinks. Life was hard before the war, he knows. He remembers working two jobs and still laying awake hungry at night. And now.. with only one arm. “I’d only weigh them down.” 

At Yakov’s shake of the head, he lifts his stump, annoyed. When he shakes the empty sleeve, pins jingling against what’s left of his elbow, where they’ve cuffed it up . “Hell, I’m weighing _ you  _ down and this whole battalion besides, with what I’m stowing away. And I have yet to even help make my own bed.” He sighs; looks at Lieutenant Yakov askence, feeling shy. “I know it’s worse here. The Nazi’s really did a number on Poland. Guess you’ll be in a hurry to get rid of a piece of ballast but -”

“You are  _ not _ .” Lieutenant's fist hits the table, and he’s on his feet, towering over the nameless man in anger. “We find Nazi camp. All men  _ dead _ . Good men, Russian Comrades, we find in cages. All dead. Murdered. My soldiers  _ cry _ , American. They lose faith.” Yakov tucks one thumb into his belt, stoops and pushes his face between the American and the hole he was trying to glare into the table. “But you, you live. Rotting arm, two bullets in head. But you  _ live. _ ”

The man with no name crosses his arms, or tries. Ends up hugging himself awkwardly, eyes burning. He hates it when Yakov does this. He means well. But. “Is that why the men call me нежитью?”

Yakov tuts. “Superstitions boys. No, look. Doctor tells me, you lost cause. Be dead by morning. I talk to him, he promises to see in morning. In morning, you strong enough to get bullets out. Week later, Doctor tells me, okay; you live. But you’ll be sad plant for life. Will never wake; still not safe to move. We put you in back of truck anyway, and next day you  _ do _ wake. Next week, you  _ walk _ .”

The man is spent, tired. “Was there a point?”

“Point is, you give men hope. And you're tough. Surfivor.” Yakov gestures again, breathing heavily through his lips, then sits back down, bringing his chair in closer, only inches left between them, as he puffs heavy air in his face. “This American made of strong stuff, yes?” 

The man tries to grunt in assent. But really, wonders about that. He will allow Yakov that it’s a miracle, that he still is alive. Because truthfully, there wasn’t much left to rescue. 

The first time they put him in front of a mirror, the American  _ did _ cry. At that point his whole left side was a pock-marked horror; damaged and irritated. A hack-job on his arm that had focussed on removing rotting tissue, angry welt and scars spreading out towards his shoulders and chest, lacing down towards his abs. Like he’d been infected, or perhaps grabbed and sucked dry by a giant octopus. And fuck, his face. One eye pure white and a dozen staples keeping his ruined forehead together.

Yakov had been consoling that time too. Telling him he’d come  _ such a long way _ already, and that he would get a lot better still. The doctors and nurses, however, were stony eyed and quiet, and only spoke when prompted. The nameless man had assumed at the time that had meant Yakov was lying to him, and the doctors knew better.

Turns out Yakov was  _ not _ lying, because the man’s eye cleared up a week later and by now there’s hardly a dent left in his head. The crisscross of scars on his chest are nearly gone, and the skeletal figure he was back then is filling up at such an alarming rate he can feel himself growing after every meal. 

Turns out the reason the doctors looked so grim was the exact opposite; turns out the nurses wouldn’t touch him because they were  _ scared _ . Still  _ are _ scared. Because there is nothing  _ natural _ about how he healed back up. How quickly he did; that he did at all. There’s  _ nothing natural  _ about how he survived. 

And, he’d like to believe that it’s something given to him by his own people. Something along what the late Captain America is rumored to have had. But, he can remember the scientists over his cage arguing. Joy and frustration and wonder in the garble over him in quick succession. So the American is pretty sure it’s something a lot more insidious; something  _ they _ did to him. 

Besides, Yakov tried to follow up on the Captain America lead, and was met with a lot of closed doors. America would have been a lot more interested in getting him back if there had been a chance that he had been on that program, wouldn’t they? 

Well, he’s happy he healed. Lucky, for as far as it went. He’s far better off than any other surfivor from any camp he’s seen so far. He  _ does _ feel bad about eating so much when rations are slim. But Yakov gets him what he needs. He says they are all brothers, and they need to share what they have. That the American needs to stock up and heal.

Yakov has been kind to him from the start, he thinks. Perhaps the only one. Again, the Russian offers his kindness: one hand coming down on his good shoulder as the man squints at him. “pPerhaps,.. I was not going to say, because American should go home to family. But I know in Moscow, there is program. For wounded soldier to try.. Get you, new arm?”

“Yakov,..” he sighs, “ _ why _ would they want to help me? Why would  _ you? _ I am not even your countryman.” 

The lieutenant nods, shifts in his seat, but does not remove his hand. He wets his lips, eyes tracking. Kneads the hand deeper. The American almost imagines he can feel Yakov’s heart beat. Feel it through his fingers. Fast and nervous. But that doesn’t make sense. “You let Yakov take care of this, yes? I know people.. In Kremlin. They will help you.” 

“I don’t know. I don’t know, my.. friend.” the nameless man shifts away slightly under the touch. Though it’s comforting, it doesn't feel right to take  _ this _ too. But it’s been so long. No one will touch him here. Go figure. Нежитью might be catching, after all. What was the last time? He cannot remember; with his shot-to-hell memories. The doctors and nurses here, with their rubber gloves and caps don’t count. The scientists before with their instruments and clamps, coming at him through bars. No, but that was  _ worse _ than nothing!

The last time; last time he can remember skin on his face was in the cage. Laying on his good arm, listening to the ever-ongoing disagreement over him in German or Austrain or whatever. His one arm asleep and dead beneath him, shackled to the bars and wrapped up in gauze and chicken-wire and all he can feel from it is the constant pump of ice into his veins. Chicken-wire so he can no longer tear out with his teeth those  _ cursed lines  _ running into him; poisoning him. But it’s okay he tells himself because at least the rest of him is  _ not strapped down. _ He can move; could move, if he still had the strength. He remembers shuffling closer to the bars, putting his face in front of his one hand. Stroking his face with those fingers, sticking out of the gauze and wraps.

The scientists over head argue in crescendo. It is amusing, at this point. Or, at least mildly entertaining. Better than focussing on the fire and ice or the pumping pain from his arm that is not there.. But. all of it had been far away. Had he been dying?  _ Why _ had it upset the scientists that he had been dying if they were poisoning him..?

Still, it had felt good to be able to touch his own face. Comforting. But this, this is better. Yakov’s hand is hard and calloused, but warm. It’s only when the rough thumb slides into wetness next to his eye that he realises. 

“No cry, American. I will help.” Yakovs soothes, and he can smell cigarette smoke on the officer’s breath. A hint of sweet egg and the sweet tell-tale of Vodka. Normal smells that nearly drown him now. Sometimes the nameless man wonders if this is normal, or another sign of the thing that sets him apart. At this point, he’s afraid to bring it up to his doctors. 

Yakov’s hand is in his hair, now. Fingers catching on strands as he runs his fingers through the slight curls. And it’s not a bad thing. No; it’s a comfort. Calms the clamor in his head, the panic from nothing and too much at once running through him from all sides. Mooring him and keeping him anchored when nothing about the world even feels familiar to him right now. But still, it is.. Not normal behavior? The man thinks. To touch like this with another grown man.

“Lieutenant...” he starts, hesitating. Unsure. Yakov shushes him. “I am your friend, American. You, let me  _ help _ you..”

He swallows, uncomfortable. It feels like he’s receiving a hand-out, again. Like some bum. Is he really that pathetic? But what else can he do? Where can he go? The US Army apparently has more important things to do than pick him up. Going at it alone from here; from the ruins of a devastated Poland would be suicide. “I don’t know..”

“Fine. “ Yakov straightens, releases him. “You come then, with me to my home in Moscow. Come to dinner, meet my fiance. And we talk then. Yes?”

It is a delightful change of subject. The American finds his first, real smile since forever. “Yakov! I didn’t know you were  _ engaged! _ Congratulations.” it’s a good excuse to back away; make a little distance. Harvest what’s left of his pride. Offer a naughty grin, that is answered by a grunt. “Family arranged it. But she is good, strong woman. Famous. A Prima Donna. Was, before she took a fall. She will make a good wife. You will like her.” Yakov smiles now too. “ _ No one _ says  _ no _ to her.”

Word used:

Нежитью - (russian) undead.

  
  
  



	7. slow mornings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James is back in the land of the living.  
> Added warnings, which I will now start tagging: reference to medical experimentation. reference to medical torture, not grafic.  
> note for readers keeping up: last week, I intruduced a character named Vasili. this was meant to be a last name, and he would not quite have fit in with the character of Vasili Karpov. so, I changed his name to Yakov.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genni: thank you for our discussion. I’ve back and fourth a bit, read some more of the back story of the different characters you linked, checked my note plans and decided, a different name would be better. So, Vasili is changed to Yakov. It should clear up major misunderstandings in the backstory I had worked out. Ugh. well, if I do put that in, most of it will probably get it’s own part so..

Waking up always sucks. He tries to cover for it, but there’s always something, isn’t there? Some part of him that got away when he wasn’t on guard. Whether it’s waking up in his own piss and vomit or just —he supposes he should be thankful for such small mercies— just waking up face-down in a poodle of his own drool. It’s just never good, and he wishes he’d just stop.

And then he manages to turn his head, mildly surprised at how clear it already feels. Nothing like passing out, or thawing out or.. Or, what was that other thing? But he catches sight of  _ her _ , and he remembers: everything is  _ awesome.  _

James smiles, tests the waters, working his jaw against the table, and chances a soft “hi”.

And it comes out well enough - just how amazing is Wakanda? They don’t just know how to turn him off with a little drip here and an injection there; they can turn him back on again without even a headache. Even from passing out James is usually dry-mouthed and uncoordinated for  _ hours _ after waking. 

She smiles back:  _ princess Shuri  _ smiles lighting up the room. She fingers a small tablet, moves in place a moment, then squeals her own “hi,” and they are good. 

Or, he hopes they are good. How much drool is sticking to his face? It’s hard to tell, with the cheek mussed up and insensate. But it can’t be a pretty sight. James supposes he could be lucky enough the table and padding obscure the worst of it, but the lighting in these Wakanda hospital wards is just annoyingly clear. Best to rub it off as quick as possible, though he probably  _ ruined _ her impression of him. James raises his arms and grabs the soft material; dark, firm, but giving slightly from the pressure of his fingers as he pushes himself up to sit.

“We had to turn you around for the last parts.” Shuri’s voice is like a race-horse at the starting line: ready and eager to bolt, but kept back by reason. Breath high in her chest, heartbeat fast and giddy. It takes James a moment to place the emotion: excitement. “But we’re all done and it all looks great. I sent the team out before waking you; figured that might be more pleasant for you. How are you feeling? Are you feeling okay?”

Just a hint of uncertainty there, and James hurries to placate: “yeah. I think. I think so,” though he sways unsteadily. Feels a little too light, and he needs to hold onto the pillowed operating table with both hands when he puts his legs out over the side. It’s only at that moment that he realises.

Holy shit, he’s got  _ two arms _ again. 

“I, wow.” he hadn’t even noticed. “Just wow.”

As soon as his bare feet touch smooth marble he brings up the arm; studies it. Gawks at it, awestruck. James sways again, and is hardly aware of Shuri telling him to take it easy. The drugs might not be completely out of his system after all. But, that’s not why he feels so unsteady. He  _ has a left arm again _ . And, yes. It’s flesh, but metal. But, that is where the similarities with his old arm end. Nearly pure black with shining gold accents, fine fingers with plates so small they might well be scales. Sleek and quick; light and responsive and. “Just wow.” So fucking  _ light _ it’s not even heavier than his real right arm. In fact, he’s nearly certain it weighs exactly as much as his right, flesh-an-blood arm. And this new arm.. it doesn’t hang; doesn’t chafe or pull or pinch. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t noticed it? 

No; no it’s  _ more _ than that.  _ So much more. _ There had been a moment where he hadn’t known. Hadn’t  _ felt _ like part of him was gone. Hadn’t noticed the absence; had felt whole.

Why was that? How does  _ this _ feel so real? Like a real arm, like a flesh-and-blood arm; more real than any of his previous trials. More real even than the flesh donor arm; the flesh graft that had stuck to him so well for nearly a year. The one that had been proclaimed a success until someone thought to put him back under in cryo, and it had failed to thaw out right. No; but this one. This one is better..

There’s a spatial awareness to it. Pressure and temperature sensors, but also some of the add-ons he can already sense: a hum in response to electronics, something he thinks must be detecting airborne particles. And wind speed? Is that; the feel of air flowing past? No; that is not some sensor, or a cluster of sensors. This is obitious: senses on every bare piece of surface. Senses even where the skin is not bare: where knuckles touch together, the inside of his elbow; where the shoulder blade touches the back of his artificial biceps. 

It  _ feels. _ Apart from the new, special sensations from equipment she promised it  _ actually _ feels. Not in the shunted, deformed way that flesh graft had, or any phantom stings from fingers and joins long,gone. No, it feels  _ just like a real arm would. _ Just like a real hand. Fingers closing, registering tension and friction from the joints and metal talons. Fingers opening, feeling the flow of cold air on his palm when the surface is re-exposed “Wow.” feeling. “Just wow.”

It  _ feels. _

“Do you like it? Do you like it?” The princess is practically bouncing on the balls of her feet by now. Her expression is like a child’s expecting praise for a task done  _ beyond _ perfect. “Isn’t it  _ amazing? _ Isn’t it the best?”

“Yes.” James swallows, completely overcome. “Yes. it is. Amazing.” Manages to tear his eyes away from that black, perfect hand and meet her eyes. Wide-eyed, he tries a thankful smile.

He must have failed. Shuri stares, expression freezing and then falling, shoulders drooping slightly. “You  _ don’t _ like it…”

“No!” oh god, but anything but  _ that. _ “No! I _ love  _ it. It’s amazing. I just. It’s a lot.” It really is. This has to be the single most amazing thing anyone has ever given him. The arm; it’s perfect: strong, beautiful. Quick, sleek. It is a jewel. But one meant for use; obviously. He imagines he can fight and shoot and sneak with this. After all, he reminds himself, Wakandans like to make everything beautiful. That doesn’t mean it is without function. 

She stands there, hugging her tablet pensively. Then, as a slow smile crawls it’s way up her face, she reaches out. Spans the distance between them, reaches to where his new arm had fallen back close to his side. “Yes, James; yes, I bet it is. I think the radar and electronic sensors might take a while to adjust to. That should be somewhere between taste and smell. But, if you want the  _ Pièce de Résistance… _ ”

And her finger brushes his wrist. He feels her fingers brush his wrist. Feels the click of nails and the drag across the skin-scales where his pulse should be. Oh, god, it  _ feels _ . James gasps for air. “Yeah.” it really registers  _ touch. _ “Ye it’s..” No words can do this justice; and her. “You.  _ You’re _ amazing, Shuri. Really.”

That gets her back to her usual bravado: a little twist from left to right, before she grins. “Ye. I know.” She coughs, taps on her tablet, then starts with a faux business voice. “Now, there’s a few things you’ll need to know. Sensors, like for electronics sensors. There’s a radar function that should feel like vibrations. Some small things you’ll get the hang of, here and there.” she looks up, gives him a bright, white toothed smile. This time he can return it. She nods, swallows thinkly. Like she’s suddenly nervous. “I got rid of all the trackers, and the ballast too. Took like seventy pounds out of you? Also, you should be okay going through metal detectors and such. Vibranium doesn’t show up. Doesn’t show up on radar either, so you should be a lot harder to find for Hydra. But I did outfit the arm with a beacon you can engage in emergencies. So we can find you when you need us to.”

That is a pleasant thought. Shuri can find him if he ever gets lost. Or taken. But, there’s something wrong; something missing. Twisting his arm up all the way he can just about make out the side; where he’d had his Russian star emblazoned. It’s gone. James is fine with that. Okay; they sold him after all. Why should they get to claim ownership after that. But, the place where it was once is empty; void. As black and perfect and unmarked as the rest of it. That is.. disappointing. But then, perhaps, it is the intelligent choice.

He finds his voice “You got rid of  _ all _ counterweights?” that’s going to take a little time to adjust to; no wonder he cannot keep his balance. No more kicking people through jets, he supposes. Then again, speed and stealth should be up. James figures it’ll be a worthwhile trade-off. 

“That’s why we had to cut into you from behind. I guess that could be a bit distorting, but trust me this is better. You’ll just have to take it slow getting up or running until you get your balance back.” She smiles her perfect smile again, long neck angling ever so slightly. “It can’t have felt too good having all that mess inside of you.”

James grunts, prompts: “And no way to track me. And not showing up on radar. It is perfect for reconnaissance and stealth missions.”

That gets a reaction; though it's the opposite of what he wanted: she straightens and steps backwards. Blinks twice like she needs to consider that. Like she had _ not yet considered that _ . “I suppose so. But, the main point is, no one is going to be able to find you or get their hands on you again. And, even if someone ever  _ does _ find you, you can fight them off and call us for help, okay?”

“Okay..” James sighs, averts his gaze and tries not to be disappointed. He had hoped the arm would show him what to be. Who to be. So far, all he’s gotten is what he’s  _ not _ supposed to let happen. That much, he’d already figured out on his own. Hydra-Bad was usually the first thing his fried brain ever remembered. Usually even before Steve-End-of-the-Line and Having-a-Metal-Arm-Is-Probably-Not-Normal.

She closes the distance between them again though, pushes her chin forward ever so slightly with an inviting grin. “But also, you got to practice that arm, okay? You’ll need to get aquitent with how it acts and feels and..”

And that.. that is something, at least. Something to keep him busy, for now. Though, it’s a thin job-description. Yet, she is at least offering a hint of another. Heartened, he raises the metal appendage carefully. “Trust me, I know the drill,” tentatively, he brushes a metal finger across her cheek. Slowly; ever so slowly. Carefull; though he already knows this arm is so much safer and easier to control than anything from before. “And I can practice. I bet you have a piano around here, somewhere..”

“You play?”

“No.” James sucks in a breath. “Well, yes. Technically. Or. long story.”

“Well, starting off with something like that might be frustrating. Just try everyday things.” she smiles again, takes his metal hand in hers. “Like feel, and touch. Oh, and be advised. The arm  _ can _ hurt. I put the threshold up so it’ll only start to feel bad once you are actually in danger of damaging it. But, get it too hot or dent or cut it and you’ll _ know. _ ” 

James blinks at ther, as she brings her hand up to his; takes it and cradles it like something dear. “It’s.. well, I thought about it, but the general consensus is, you want to keep something, you need to know when you’re breaking it.” 

“Oh, I’m not complaining.” he assures her. Though the task sounds..  _ easy, _ put like that. Easy and  _ boring _ , actually. Though, James feels guilty just thinking that. Why, only a few days ago, it was Shuri feeling useless and bored. And he, only minutes after being gifted something as beautiful and perfect as this new arm. And her expression now, so close and trusting: a somewhat sad smile, but so.. appreciative. 

A knock at the door pulls his attention, uncharacteristically singular. Mohai is standing in the entryway, an unreadable expression on her face. “Hello,” she finally offers, “I hope I am not interrupting anything..” though, James somehow feels she doesn’t look apologetic at all. She steps inside, spear going from left-to right and ending horizontal behind her. “I thought I’d take James here back to his rooms, with him just out of surgery, and you needed for the feast tomorrow.”

“A feast?” that seems odd to James, considering. 

Shuri grimaces. “It’s actually a diplomatic thing. The Jabari tribe’s leaders are coming down on our invitation. It’s -ah. Complicated.” Shuri fiddles with the tablet, looks down, then turns to Mohai. “That’s very kind of you. You’re probably right; I really have no time to waste.” she smiles, looking back up. “Sorry James; let’s talk tomorrow evening, after the ceremonies?”

James does not like this at all. Sidelined? No; not today, thank you. “Wait, what’s going on. Can’t I help? At least tell me what’s going on..”

Mohai snorts. “This is tribe-business, and when it comes to the Jabari, the best an outsider can do is stay out of their way. They are old-fashioned like that. Come with me, James. I’ll take you to your rooms. I’d like to talk to you anyway.”

“Oh, don’t be like this.” he turns from Mohai back to Shuri, imploring with his eyes. “At least explain..?”

Shuri sighs, caving too easily. “We think we’ve found a way to wake up Wanda. It’s a method using an ancient relic.”

“That’s.. great?”

“But there’s a problem. M’Baku’s tribe has the relic. The mountain tribe and ours have had their differences, and they are distrustful of outsiders. Wary of technology.. When we fess up that we taught Wanda how to enter the dream world, he will not let us use it lightly. He cannot. It would make him lose face to his tribesman. Not to mention, when he finds out who Wanda worked for..  _ with _ before.. Nazi’s have done our brothers in the rest of Africa enough injustice. It will be difficult to frame this right. So, big diplomatic red carpet; butter him up.” Shuri smiles again, but all the power and bluster seems to have left her. She looks young, weary and tired. “You know the drill.”

“Okay.” James considers. “Is there anything I could do to help?”

“Not really. The mountain king is on his way down. He will be here tomorrow, and we will feast. It might be easier if you do not attend. Besides, you’ve just had major surgery. I know you can bounce back like no-one else, but take a little time to heal? Relax.. This dinner is bound to be stressful and full of politics.”

James pouts. He doesn’t like this. His arm is fixed, his head is fixed. And she still won’t put him to use? Perhaps, she is of the misconception that he is a blunt instrument. “Couldn’t I help? I mean, Wanda and me are practically Hydra-siblings. And I’ve dealt with a fair share of difficult rulers. I could make friends, explain neither of us knew we were on the wrong side..?” James turns subtly towards Shuri, turning his back on Mohai; imploring the one in charge here.

“Not that I do not want you there. I just doubt he'll like you. He doesn’t like outsiders on principle..” The princess shakes her head, a few strands of her done-up hair coming loose.

Mohai grunts, behind him. “Though you have a..  _ talent _ for making friends.” she sounds almost angry about it. “Still, this one is out of your league. Come on home James; I really would like a word with you in private as well.”

There’s a moment where both women make eye contact, right over his shoulder. Shuri prompting, Mohai unwilling to continue. James waltzes over it like a pro. “That is what I mean!” he calls out excited. “I can make friends with just about anyone. Won’t you let me try?”

The princess is nearly swayed. “Oh please,” he lies, “I  _ love _ dinner parties!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> Pièce de Résistance (french) - main dish.


	8. messing round

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> james may be in over his head...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> First of all I feel people are going to be upset with me over this chapter so.. I am so sorry! I’ll make up; don’t know how. But I will.
> 
> Extra warnings: two-timing!  
> grafic description of a kiss.

Mohai keeps her piece just until they are over the threshold; she sweeps into his rooms uninvited totting her spear like she’s off to war. Then stops abruptly, turns to face him. And James knows he’s off his game; literally off balance. Too light, too sensitive; too _whole_ and in too much shock to be on top of his game. But really, he should have noticed sooner. In the way she marched- not walked. Stared straight ahead the whole way. Whatever; damage control it is.

“Why don’t you come in,” James delivers half-mocking, half in reprimand as he closes the door. It at least gets him a pause and one corner of her mouth turning up, before it falls again with a sigh. Mohay falters: turns and twists; looks everywhere but _at_ him. And it’s so unlike her; unlike the warrior woman he got to know in these weeks that James feels obliged to help her out. “You are.. upset with me.”

That gets a laugh out of her, at least. An almost hysterical sound that she cuts off by turning her back at him. Then, with a firmer grip on her spear, she turns to face him. “You and the Princess are close.”

Is that what’s upset her? James grunts at that. It is no secret. He has been nothing but honest in this regard. “She is an amazing woman. I am blessed she would take time to put me back together..” Pauzing, James reconsiders; studies the Dora. Heart-rate elevated; beating like a war-drum in his ear-thrumming and washing over him like a bass-beat. Tension in her every muscle; one in her jaw, working rhythmically to keep herself under control. She is beyond angry; no. She is raging to the point where Mohai; a competent and confident Dora warrior, doesn’t know what to do with herself. “You and Shuri do not get along..?”

“What?!” Mohai seems distressed by the idea. Nearly throws her spear; though it doesn’t get close to being aimed at him; and that’s a welcome plus at this point. “No! She is my _princess._ I just,” Mohai deflates. “I thought... you and me..?” shakes her head, “No. but, you are right. She is the princess. I won’t get in the way. I can see Shuri feels for you..”

James swallows thinly, suddenly worried. Finally placing the source of her rage. He needs to tread carefully now. Deliberately, he moves from the door, pulls out one of the ornate chairs, and makes a show of sitting down leisurely. Sitting down will be better; he needs to de-escalate this, not challenge her further. And yet, and yet.. He hadn’t _realised._ And now, James feels like an idiot for it. He should have seen this the moment Mohai walked into Shuri’s lab. But, he’d been distracted.

He taps his metal hand on the table in a simple beat. Ignores his own heart in his throat and the sensations of wood-grain on his metal fingers. The balance, the temperature. All the things; ignores and asks: “would Shuri liking me make you feel threatened?”

Again, that nervous; near-hysterical laugh. It grates on his nerves: her manner. Her anger. Jealousy is such a nasty emotion. “Why, _yes,”_ she admits, readily. Still with that hint of righteous fury. “I would feel.. _threatened”_ Mohai pushes the word, like it’s not quite fitting, _“.._ if you and the Princess got into a _relationship_.”

James pouts his lips into a silent “o”. All the too-much of his feelings fall away as he finally knows what he needs to do: how he can _stop_ her trail of thought. Turn that anger; that rage away from himself. Deflect it. Disarm it. He knows the way. “Mohai…” he chides, “what, I’m going to go and _date_ the _Wakandan Princess?_ ” James looks her in the eye, reprimanding her with a frown. “What? Woo her and court her? Buy her a ring and ask the King of Wakanda her hand in marriage?”

Mohai blinks. Hesitates, then asks more than claims. “Our royal family would accept you if that is what Shuri wishes. And she has already accepted you..” 

“Okay.” James allows his voice to raise, just ever so slightly. “Should I, what? -ask her to _abdicate_ from succession? Or would you have her produce little half-breeds with the most fucking famous Nazi collaborater in known history?” -Mohai hisses, spits out half a syllable before he cuts her off hard: “also not going to happen by the way. No fucking pitter patter of feet in _that_ future..”

“James!” she yells, stamps her foot. A thunderclap; and James knows he’s overstepped his bounds. Far and hard. Drops his gaze somewhere to the floor and waits for her turn. “You _don’t-!_ ” Mohai cuts off; lets the silence hang between them as she struggles. When he dares he catches her rub her face in exasperation from beneath his lashes. “You _don’t_ talk about yourself that way. You don’t talk about - _half-breeds?_ Where did you get that _word!_ God, let that be Harry Potter.”

“Who?” He tries, but takes his chance when he sees it. “Shuri is my _friend.”_ He implores _._ “My _best_ friend.”

“And what am I?” she asks into the silence.

Have his words failed? Jealousy. Such a _nasty_ enemy. James never did know how to fight it; not the root of it. But he’s got.. tactics. Tactics that rely less on words and more on action; first, to disarm. He raises his eyes with his best approximation of a sad puppy-dog. “You are _also_ my friend. Should I not have more than _one_ _friend?_ ”

It works; Mohai laughs; weakly this time. “No. no; that’s _fine_ . But.” She leans her spear against the table, leans against it and stands at his side. An offer; an invitation. “It’s just that I guess I thought we were _more_ than friends?”

“Really?” James breathes a sigh of relief. This; this is easy. A beaten path. “I would _like_ that.” 

She bites her lip, offering her ample profile. The Dora uniform showing off her buste and muscles and _fine figure_ in equal measures. “I mean, the other day. When we kissed. That didn’t really _feel_ like a friendship kiss.”

“Oh no,” he faux-feigns affront, “did I do it _badly?_ I might be out of practice.”

“No, no I _liked_ it.” the way she runs a finger along the grain of the table; her body language: the slight sway. The rhythm of her heart. The sudden whiff of pheromones. James reaches out, carefully takes her hand from it’s path and pulls her close until she turns and places one knee between his legs, just shy of touching. “I liked it..” her voice turns throaty and low.

“You think I should practice again though?” He grins up at her, places his real hand on her hip. Focusses on her face and tries to ignore the odd feel of enhanced touch that Shuri has gifted him with. He will not be distracted from his mission _this_ close from success. “I mean, I liked it too. Still. If you think I messed up, I really think I deserve another chance.”

The way her face splits up in a radiant smile, any anger evaporated is reward enough. The lessening of the thrum of his own heartbeat bouncing through his skull just an added bonus. “I don’t know.. “ She teases. “I mean, are you going to kiss _all your friends_ like this?”

“If you mean to ask, have I and Shuri kissed, the answer is no.”James promises as she lets herself be guided down to his mouth. “I wouldn’t _dare_ upset a great warrior such as yourself.” She goes willingly, meeting his lips with a fervent, almost frantic need. And he lets her in; her questing tongue and teasing teeth. Follows her back inside her when she entices and gives way again when she pushes. He enjoys the feel, the taste of her; of all she will give or take. All the while he turns slow circles on her hips with both his real and given hand; does as Shuri told him and focuses on how they feel. How they compare. Safe in her loving arms James finally releases his control and lets the sensations -so strong and real- drown him. 

Mohai is generous and sweet; loving and kind to his roving, clumsy hands. She allows every one of his questioning touches. But James is definitively off his game, and feeling and trying and sensing so much he must be missing all her little prompts. The new arm stutters and tremors twice, and James nearly growls at it. Mohai just chuckles. “Nice new hardware, trooper.”

“I’m still working on controlling it.” James excuses. “Would you like to ins— would you like to see it?” she cackles at him when he tries to get the strings off the surgical top he’s still wearing. 

Mohai swats at his real hand playfully. “If you’re trying to tempt me with abbs and weaponry, you have the right idea. But I’m going to be an old-fashioned girl and wait for our first time to be when you’re _not_ drugged out of your mind.” She then sulters back out his rooms with a little spear spin and closes the door behind her.

James holds his breath till he can no longer hear the click of his heels. Then counts to twenty and back before allowing his breath to speed up. He puts both elbows on his knees and rubs his real hand through his hair. _How could he have been so stupid?_ Wakandans are kind and fair and _honest._ And now he’s gone and.. not _lied._ He hasn’t _kissed_ Shuri yet.

But he wants to; oh how he _wants_ to. And by the looks Shuri’s been giving him, James is pretty sure he can get there. Soon. What is he going to tell Mohai when that happens? _Nothing?_ Outright _lie_ and deceive her? Theoretically, he has the skills. But lying to a friend, even if it’s just one he chose for himself.. That’s. No. James doesn't even want to _try_.

Suddenly exhausted, he sits back and stares at the floor. Perhaps.. he should not have taken so much initiative. But, Shuri’s been so vague of what she wanted of him. And guessing; well, guessing can be hard. Wakandan culture is just so different from all he’s known and maybe -maybe this is a sign he’s out of his depth.

Still, it should be _fine;_ with Shuri. It should be okay. The Dora share almost _anything._ Shuri would _not_ be Jealous; James is sure. Hell, Shuri probably _already knows,_ right? The Dora share just about _anything._ Except men. And perhaps Mohai is confused on this. Perhaps Mohai doesn’t _know_. But Shuri read his files. Shuri definitively knows, he is not.


	9. me-time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James does some thinking..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, I had a feeling some people might not have liked the last chapter and.. I think I might have been right. sorry. this one is -him trying to explain himself a little I guess.  
> Also, forshadow ahoy, nex chapter is the dinner!
> 
> new warning:  
> slight self-harm. (from where he submerges his hands)  
> self-image problems.  
> thinking of yourself as different people.

James sits staring into nothing a long time; eyes boring into black marble floor tiles. He’s just not _used_ to this. It’s like being on and off the field at the same time. Like every foe is a friendly but every friendly is an unknown and it’s _confusing_. 

Still, James admits as he sits back, Mohai isn’t a big problem. He can evade her easily, as long as he keeps his wits about him. He’s done it before. He even evaded Captain America, the Avengers, all major government agencies _and_ Hydra’s ruins for two years. This will be the same, only on a smaller floor plan. The real problem— the _real_ unknown boogey is _Shuri_.

Because if _Mohai_ would get jealous if he kissed Shuri, would _Shuri_ be jealous if she found out he’d _already_ kissed Mohai? James tells himself again: _no._ Of course not. But he doesn’t _know_ for sure, does he? James may be able to read her every thought, analize Shuri’s every feeling. But he cannot _predict_ them. He cannot _predict_ Shuri. Her mind is too fast for him; fickle and everywhere at once. Sharp, cutting and present one moment, then gone into a pipedream of science and math where James cannot follow. 

Culturally, James has just as little info to base his predictions on. Except of course _to read Mohai’s reactions,_ and Mohai’s reactions were.. But it doesn’t make sense to him. How is he supposed to have several friends, but not allowed to let one know he kissed another? Should he try and stop his _friends_ from interacting then? That would be complicated. It wouldn’t be the first time, but here, in Wakanda…

With a sigh James drags himself to his feet. Here in Wakanda people are _honest._ Back in Stalin’s paranoid Russia keeping a few things here and there had been easy. No one trusted anyone anyway; and knowing too many secrets was as much as a death sentence as knowing nothing at all. Even with Hydra, he’d had a few lucid moments where he pulled the wool over one or two goons at least partially. 

But here, playing both sides would be nearly impossible. Not to mention,.. Not to mention… James _still hasn’t figured out what Shuri would want him to be._

Suddenly exhausted, James sways on his feet. Well, nothing to be done about it now. He should just have a hot shower. Hot showers are _good_. 

He trudges past his beautiful windows with empty, peaceful viestas of the Wakandan palace. Damn, but James had not _expected_ to need to lie. Not to Shuri. He had not planned for it. Doesn’t _want_ to. No; James is not sure he could pull _that_ off even if _that_ was _exactly_ what Shuri wanted. Just picturing that bright, radiant smile. What kind of _monster_ would lie to _that?_ And if it did, would such a devil not simply burst into flames from the act?

James passes by his open, quiet windows. Only the last offeris sounds of bustling activity below. But it’s nothing to do with him; just some crates being moved about, so when he reaches his bathroom, he closes the door firmly behind him. Just another reason he’d not be able to manipulate to any decent degree: there are _hundreds_ of people in and out the palace at any given time and James.. James is obviously _not_ the hub of their plans or missions. He’s not even sure there _are_ missions here. 

Oh _right_ ; James allows as he leans his back against the door. There are a _few_ missions: _enjoy_ and relax and _heal_ and feel and _make friends_ . An uncharacteristic pit of fury opens in his gut and James has to bite his tongue until it passes. Hold still and push back against the door until it floats past, like a ghost out to haunt that cannot find it’s victim. That’s _not_ him. James does not _do_ rage; that’s all Bucky. And so he wills it away. But,.. Still. These simple, _stupid_ missions.. Is he even doing _them_ right? Is he doing _anything_ right?

Would they _tell_ him if he was doing it wrong? And how long is all this supposed to take? At what point is there mission success? The trigger words are out of his head, he’s got a better arm than ever. And sure, he might take a few weeks to master it completely. But still,.. But still? 

No. nonono. James straightens, pushes off the heavy wood-grained door. James is being _greedy_ . Didn’t he just talk Shuri into letting him do his thing at the dinner party tomorrow? That, that is a _real_ mission right there. And it’s something he’s _good_ at. Or could be.. _used_ to be good at. Dancing and talking and _making friends_. It just feels so long ago now.

And yet.. It taunts: _‘remembers Pierce? Didn’t you try to make friends with him too?’_ It cackles. ‘ _Didn’t_ that _work out well?’_

And, oh, that is _definitely_ the ghost of Bucky. James allows his new left hand to make a fist. So _like_ that _asshole_ to think that was funny. It’s not untrue. He _had_ tried _so hard_ to make Pierce like him, but all he’d got was badly disguised sneers and a boot in the face for his troubles. And that had _hurt_ , because his fucked up brain had kept telling him things had been different; kept telling him there had been admiration in that gaze, once. And the _him-that-had-been-left_ had kept wondering what he'd done.. What had been so bad he wasn’t even allowed to remember.

But that had been a _lie_ , and that proto-James had been remembering someone else besides. And Pierce hadn't even been wrong to loathe him. Because the half-wit left at that point couldn't even.. No; that had _not_ been James. That had been Winter-Soldier Light: An old PC-468 down to its last ram slot still trying to run Windows 10. 

But everything is different now. James is _different_ now; whole. Strong, and smart. The fist looks for something to break, but he catches it with his right. _James_ is _whole_. He’ll woo that Mountain King till he’s star-struck and head-over-fucking-heels. And that’ll be hard. Yes. That’ll be difficult. But. 

So what? That’s _good._ That is fine. It’ll be a challenge. And he’s got time to prepare. Easy mission now, hard mission tomorrow. So first, the shower. James decides he can practise his new arm. Feel; sense. He brings up his left hand, hovering over the shower panel with its many settings, closes his eyes and concentrates.

There’s _definitely_ something there. A hum, or maybe an odor. What an amazing thing, this arm Shuri has given him. He’s enthralled with it, really. On a whim, he follows the lines behind his shower walls, to something he imagines must be a relay, right down to the water intake. There’s something small and smell-like-pepper-or-sounds-like-mice down there that must regulate the temperature. Really, amazing. Just this feature is going to be so useful. James returns to the panel and inputs his extra-hot settings, using the left again. Which —hello?— works _with touch buttons._ What an _amazing_ arm.

And he’d known it would be a jewel. He had not known it would feel so much; but at least it is _strong._ Capable. Sensitive in useful ways; if he can feel the thrum of bites running through cables within his shower walls. What else can he catch with this amazing piece of work? What had Shuri said? Taste a sonar sweep. Feel a camera recording him. 

That’s right. James breathes a sigh of relief. Shuri probably _already knows_ about Mohai. It’s been _weeks_ since he flirted his way to the Dora warrior's good side. Why, a dozen Dora probably already tattled on him. 

Although, they _do_ seem rather busy with the feast today. Not to mention, his guards have lately been looking _away_ from him, instead of _at_ him. Like they expect the danger to come from some other place than him. But even without their attention, surely the camera’s would have picked up his indiscretions? And then Shuri would already know about that first kiss, because _princess of science!_ And if she _does_ know, she really isn’t mad. Because whatever else, a great actor James does not take her for. 

Where _are_ the cameras? James should be able to sense them, but so far he’s drawing blank. 

Again, James tells himself _no_. He is getting ahead of himself. Knowing how many cameras are in his bathroom is not important. Being able to find them is not important. Not now. Not yet. The mission for today is just to feel. With a nod he starts up the water and strips. 

Showers. James _loves_ showers. Especially the hot ones. James doubts Bucky’s family even had a shower in their house; they were little more than modern novelty back then. And the hot ones will always be something of a special treat. Treats are good. Though, they should come after a mission well done..

So, this one is an advance. James steps into the compartment and puts both his hands in front himself. Mismatched palms up, he emerges both simultaneously. Feels the soft patter on both palms, and frowns. The left is just as sensitive than the right. Different, though the way it’s different is hard to quantify. It could just be the way the metal vibraves. He doesn’t think she changed anything in his right arm? Did she? Shuri did talk about counterweights. But it just feels. Different? The left is comfortable, hot drops gathered in his palm, dripping off without having time to cool. The water is not _too_ hot. Not too hot for a metal arm, the millions of tiny sensors tell him. It’s good; fine. But, he should not keep it submerged too long at this temperature, lets the heat spread out and.

Startled, James pulls out his right hand. It’s lobster red, but there’s no blisters or anything. Nothing suggesting that it had been too much. Still, that had _hurt?_ Yes. he’s pretty sure _that’s_ what that was. Fuck. of course. Of _course_ she would. 

Shuri has given him a perfect jewel. The rest of him must have looked like broken trash attached to it. So _of course_ she would fix that too. And, it makes sense. The way he feels every touch on his skin and every movement of air so much more. Just like he had.. Just like he _used_ to feel, so long ago. and. 

James is going to hell. He might be there already. Why did he even let her install this arm? Had he hoped she would embalzen him with her symbol, like Yakov had? She has not. It’s nearly pure black; a void broken only by glittering gold from the seams. It’s beautiful. It’s remarkable. A work of art; no. Like a gemstone. And now, apparently, he is one too. _Why did he let her turn him into jewelry?_

Oh that’s right. That’s right. James tries to breathe, slowly. Eases his chest under the spray and moves on till it hits him in the face, eyes closed. It’s okay. It will be _fine._

_Because this had been her favorite design._


	10. dinner party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> james meets m'baku.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> Finally, the dinner chapter!
> 
> It took me a while to cut this down into something clean, but I am moderately happy. Thank you all for the kind words on the last chapter! It was really strengthening to know you are all down with my terribly dramatic love affair story ;)
> 
> And now, without further ado: 

Shuri makes her way through the grand dining room hurriedly, winding past grand tables with their full seatings of elaborate guests. She nods curtly again at the Dora Milaje holding the curtain to the side vestibule. The moment Shuri reaches her, the other woman hands the hanging folds to the princess and leaves with a last angry scowl at James. Shuri watches her return to her post, then turns back to James with a nervous smile. “Hey.” She greets, eye roving behind him. “You’re here early. I sent your friend to get you ready. Did you..?”

James winces internally, but answers her with his most clueless expression. “Mohai? Must have _missed_ her.” 

Which, honestly, was harder than anticipated. That Dora is _persistent._ Also, he’d had to take the long way around. There were a lot of Dora Milaje about today, and he didn’t trust them not to apprehend him and send him back to Mohai if that was still remotely possible. So James had to stay off every radar until he was actually _inside_ the dining room.

Not easy. But, the Winter Soldier was a ghost, and even the Wakandans have loops in their mesh of guard deployment. James can still fall through even the smallest of such loops with enough incentive, and James had plenty of incentive. He is not planning on speaking to Mohai today, thank you very much. James has more important things to focus on today. “I am ready.”

“You are..?” Shuri frowns at him so hard her intricate tiara moves with her eyebrows. James has to stop himself from telling her she’ll get wrinkles if she keeps that up. So instead he just looks longingly behind her, at the tables with dining men and women. The Panther tribe in their unworldly fine cloths of intricately worked gold and silver. And their guests, the Jabari: heavy skins and leathers. Their expressions are as different as their attire: where the Panthers still only steal a glance here and there, with an effort to smile his way, the Jabari scowl at him.

James blinks and refocuses on Shuri's hurried words. “Listen.. My brother is against this. He will not go against my request, but.” the princess falters, a delicate shake of her head, teardrops and emeralds tinkling. “and he is _wrong,_ of course. Trying is _never_ a mistake. But. You do realize you do not _have_ to?”

“But, I _want_ to.” He does. He _needs_ this. James tries to keep his expression pleasant, but some of that steel must have shone through, because Shuri swallows and looks behind herself. “Alright. Okay.” She does a double take, then resolves. “Come this way for now and I’ll,” she blinks, “he is not in the best mood, you realise?”

This time, James might have growled. “I _am_ ready to meet the Mountain King.” 

“Okay, okay.” she cajoles, disarmingly, “keep your shirt on, where’s the fire?” and leads him into the room. To the table next to the main one, and gestures to a sudden and suspiciously empty chair. Even more suspiciously, it is located _right next_ to the Dora General. Okoye scowls at him, but James takes the newly vacated seat. Only as he scoots the chair in does he become aware of the sudden eerily quiet about the room. 

Worse, every pair of eyes seems to be on him, and James becomes uncharastically selfconscous. He curses his choice of attire as well; too western for this gathering. James would have preferred to blend in with the native dresses, but with all the sensibilities he hasn’t _dared_. So he’s opted for the most solemn pair of pants and dress shoes. And a short sleeved shirt that leaves his new arm on perfect display. This is, he is aware, the only viable choice given the circumstances.

Yet he sticks out all the more for it and today those around him are _not_ polite enough to pretend not to notice. A wide, important looking man dressed in the Jabari manner elbows Okoye from her other side and bends over to whispers in her ear in a Wakandan accent James has trouble making out. “This is the one my spies could not find? How did you hide such a big, bright blight of a man?” 

Okoye smiles thinly, and answers loudly in the usual dialect he knows well by now. “We _froze_ him, General. Now please, you do realise he can understand you.”

The man hisses curses to Okoye for teaching him Wakandan, which she of course denies. James just raises his chin an inch and stares straight ahead. A guest on a far table elbows his neighbour and points his way. Whispers. And not just a few; all around him he can hear sharp hisses and angry words..

But it’s no more than James had anticipated. T’Challa’s people are too kind, too reverent of their king to dishonor the king’s guest. But not the Jabari. James had known that a large part of this would be just to sit and be a spectacle. He can do that; he had expected it. Prepared for it. This is nothing. Play the trophy at court? Let them stare, he’ll shine. Isn’t that right? More than the tiara on Shuri’s head, if that’s what she wants from him. 

Still, it’s getting just this side of too much, because outside of the whispers and glares, there is only one discussion going on. And James can try not to listen in on T’Challa’s slowly raising voice, but he already knows he is the subject _there_ as well. James does not like being the _subject_. Subject displays mild signs of discomfort. Subject does not perform within required perimeters. Subject should be discouraged from.. Discouraged..what is that buzzing sound? How can a room full of whispers sound like an angry hornet’s nest?

“Here, have a drink.” Okoye offers in his ear. James starts, and frowns as he turns towards her. The General has put an elbow on the table, effectively creating a barrier between him and the displeased Jabari General. He can still hear plenty of others whispers, but he appreciates the gesture. Though she still scowls at him, words curt as ever. “You might need it.”

James blinks at her, trying to figure out her game; simultaneously fighting the urge to wipe his his lip- why does he feel sweaty? Okoye has hardly spoken a word since he got here. And now, she wants to make small talk? Why would she even bother? She scoffs at him. “I don’t know what you hope to achieve, but maybe this is a good time to.. “ she turns and looks at the main table meaningfully, “..manage your expectations..?” 

James follows her gaze, to stare at the back of what must be the widest man James has ever seen is in animated discussion with T’Challa. There is a lot of head shaking on what must be M’Baku’s side, and a lot of animated…. it looks like _pleading_ from King T’Challa. But of course it can’t be. Because T’Challa is the King. 

Still, that’s what it looks like: T’Challa is leaning over in his chair, wide gestures in obvious frustration. All of them are met with short, one-syllable answers. And then Shuri steps in, and the wide man throws up his hands, turning to his drink with a dismissive gesture. Not a good mood _at all._

Perhaps Okoye has the right of it. James may have done this before; has done more. Yet that was always under cover. A display of the magician’s right hand, while the bad, left takes a killing shot. A moment of illusion, not meant to be placed under the kind of scrutiny he is under now. James’s talents lie in _other_ areas..

The new hand ticks against the glass as he accepts it, downs it too quickly. The alcohol is strong and has a distinct sweet- grainy taste. Yet it will do nothing for him, unless Okoye has another bottle or two up her sleeve, But James steadies himself anyway, He will not doubt himself. He _is_ good at this. Just as long as he remembers. Everyone in this room is a friendly, even if they stare at him with enemy eyes; inquiring and condemning and dissecting from one blink to the next. James gives in to the temptation to fidget with the empty glass, and Okoye tuts in answer. It is nearly companionship, but it is over the moment he catches Shuri gesturing him over.

It’s only when James is just two steps from the table, and M’Baku starts to stand, silver pelt on his back rising up, that he realises the Mountain King may very well _not_ be named after where he hails from. 

And that M’Baku is not _wide at all._

The Mountain King is a _mountain_ of a man. Tall and strong like an oak, the pelts hanging from his shoulders like ice caps on twin peaks. What James had assumed to be his over-sized, over-weighted staff leaned against the table cannot be more than a club in his hands. One of those paws rests on the chair’s back as he pushes it away to turn and stare down at James. A hand that could wrap around James’s jaw; around his skull and still have enough room to push his middle finger down into his atlas and _sever his cerebral cortex_.

This is the kind of enemy that the Winter Soldier would take out from afar. Reel in slowly as he chipped away at him; never to let such a behemoth reach him. 

But this giant, this man. Is not an enemy. This is an _ally_ , though the glare he dishes out suggests differently. James finds it hard to believe the high mountains can grow such men, especially on goat’s milk and berries. But then a lot is strange and beyond his understanding in Wakanda. The giant in furs steps close; just a little too close so he can tower over James. And It is rare for men to be able to tower over James— unless he lets them. Unless he slouches just ever so slightly and bends at the knees; makes himself small. 

With M’Baku there is no need, but he still feels the urge. His voice, when the Mountain speaks, rumbles like an avalanche. “So this is the Coloniser you brought into our pure land first. The one to poison the well, so to speak.”

Then there’s a slight sniff, a moment where the mountain king puffs himself up a little further, and comes in just a little closer. A challenge, rolled up in pride. Or, perhaps James has issued the challenge by trespassing. Regardless, James knows this game well. He feels the man’s steady heart-beat, hears the slight crunch as the Jabari sets his jaw. A simple play for dominance, and James tries to enjoy the simplicity of it. An answer he can give; ingrained so well he hardly has to act for it: raise his eyes to the other and offer a moment of nervous deviance before breaking and resting his eyes on the man’s left clavicle and offer a weak smile. Just enough resistance to make this a satisfactory victory, but not enough deviance for even a king to take offence. 

A symbolic baring of the throat.

There's a step behind him, as the king himself comes up behind him in support. “Please, gray-back’s chosen. Be _kind_.” T’Challa seems unhappy. Like the exchange is unfortunate. James thinks he did well. Does Shuri think he did well? He wants to look; just a quick glance. 

But he can still feel M’Baku glare skewering him. He does not dare.. “This little Colonizer wanted to meet the Mountain King, I am _letting_ it. I think that is _kind enough_.”

There is another shuffle behind James; some interaction between Shuri and T’Challa. Again, James wants to chance a quick glance back, or at least step back far enough where the expanse of M’Baku’s shoulders does not fill his entire field of view. A moment later, T’Challa speaks up almost hesitantly. “The White Wolf is my guest, and a man of honor.”

“Honor?” The Mountain King’s neck muscles work, and James can feel his eyes pulling to all the kill-points. All the kinks in that impressive armor. He does not _need_ to. It is important to remember that. The idea is to make _friends_. Be nice. Still, all his instincts scream fight, and it takes nearly every ounce of him to hold himself steady. 

“Not so much pride as not to take our hand-out. Quite literally. And all vibranium?” M’Baku pauses, as James stutters from his frozen position and hurriedly offers the left arm for inspection. Because this is why he’d chosen short sleeves of course. The jewel that is his new left arm is a main attraction. It only makes sense M’Baku would want a closer look. Honestly, he’s surprised the Mountain King is the first to demand a showing. This is easy. Easier than speaking, or even smiling. Charming would be both of those. Friendly and nice.

James spreads the arm out in front, palm up. Stretches and flexes his fingers, then turns the wrist and goes through a whole range of the demonstration of angles of motions. It is perfectly soundless, and honestly, James is still enthralled by it; how smooth it runs. He’d enjoy the sensations a lot more without the Jabari leader’s disapproving frown.

M’Baku takes half a step back, shooting him an odd look before touching it and addressing the princess over James’s head. “Your work again? Pretty clever. I still hate it.”

James would like to think he was about to come to the princess’s defence. But his voice isn’t really working right now. Besides, he really shouldn't have worried: Shuri scoffs hard. “On principle I suppose. It’s just about my _best_ work.”

M’Baku hums meaningfully. “It still strikes me as Hubris to replace a limb with technology."

Shuri steps up behind James, presses a grounding hand to his back and speaks close to his ear. Her voice is calm and strong and nurturing as ever “Your tribe’s dislike for technology is half wisdom, but half ignorance. Why, if you’d accept my gift of the latest kimono beads, I think you will find..”

M’Baku huffs. “Dear child, now _you_ are the one playing ignorant. No, the Jabari view on this is, indeed, of no consequence. What _is_ of importance is how the world will perceive this.” One giant hand knocks on his vibranium shoulder, making it ring. "And here's what it looks like: you have taken Hydra's fist, armed him; literally. And now, you have taken Hydra’s experimental Witch, and taught her how to _enter our nightmares_. Both of these, while I appreciate the human side, are symbols and weapons of fear. And now, Wakanda will be perceived to hold the trigger of both."

“M’Baku.” it is T’Challa that is stepping up on his other side. “I respect your counsel. But surely, you realise I would not use either as they were used? I owe this man a debt, and we are _healing_ him.”

James swallows, caught in a three-way showdown of stares. What _is_ the Mountain King suggesting? For that matter, what is T’Challa saying? He makes it almost sound like. Like the thought of _using_ him is disgusting. James doesn’t.. Shuri wouldn’t agree with that, would she? James is not done; not ready to be decommissioned. Sure, just a few years back that had sounded like a dream. To be taken to the proverbial back of the shed and shot like a dog. But he is _healthy_ now. He is _whole_ . And Wakanda is _better_ than that.

And Shuri; dear Shuri. In his ear again, calling his name softly, hesitantly. It gives him strength. One that James immediately turns against that visceral survival instinct; the one that still has him looking up mutely at M’Baku. He uses it to turn away from that menacing, debilitating mountain; turn towards T’Challa. “But I can still fight.” James had worked with a steel arm. He worked with an _iron_ one.This one was better by far.

It is a mistake, James knows; the moment he moves. He has, again, offended the Mountain King. “Ho, and _look_ ; here I thought this little one was wise enough to hold his tongue.” The Gorilla tribe’s champion inches closer still; over and around him. James turns back to face him, fighting the instinct to crouch. To deal a swift uppercut with this left. The Jabari is big, but this close could work to James’s advantage as well. Infighting, staying under the reach of those broad arms... But no. He must not fight. Be kind, use words. Not even when M’Bake sniffs like he’s scenting him. “And how many of my African brothers did you slay with that previous arm?”

Don’t fight. Be nice. Be honest. Be good. “Sixty-four contracted and confirmed kills, sir. Your Majesty. Perhaps a few hundred in collateral and skirmishes...” 

James falls silent. What was once not good enough is now _too much by far_. 

Also, too much honesty. He flounders. “But I wouldn’t, I can’t. I mean. I won’t again. Bite the hand that. I mean.” James stutters to a stop. M’Baku towers closer, puts a hand up to his shoulder. Adjusts the fur. James’s eyes follow the hand. “I don’t bite..” 

He can’t. But that hand.. tries to tell himself that it’s fine. As long as it is just the hand, and not that nasty looking club somewhere to the side of the Mountain King. James has walked away from worse. As long as it’s just a fist, or a hand. Or even a boot. He’ll hardly feel it, really.

Except he will, now. Because Shuri… Shuri fixed him and he’s. The hand is somewhere in the air. Pauzes somewhere high up. James doesn't flinch. He does _not_. 

The hand doesn’t fall. Doesn’t touch him. Instead, M’Baku steps back, voice oddly quiet. “Is the girl like this?”

T’Challa sighs. “No. Younger.”

It takes a few breaths for him to realise he has been left alone with Shuri, and the princess is trying to steer him. James lets his body become soft and pliant, and moves his feet the directed way.

Did he fuck this up?

"You did good James." Shuri, kind as ever.

But no. No; he definitively fucked this up.


	11. bedtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James gets Shuri alone and.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yoo! Hi everyone. I am late in posting. But this one was hard and getting too long so I had to cut it in two. So.. could be more smut in the next chapter I guess. I kind of only could do like half of what I wanted.
> 
> added warnings: angst and fuzzy romantic feelz.
> 
> -

James is escorted from the grand dining hall in a bleary haze. He is not sure anymore what he’d been working for. Trying for. One part of him is secretly relieved. That part doesn’t want M ‘Baku for a friend. Not any more. Not after meeting him up close and personal: he is too big. Too loud. Too  _ angry.  _ It would never have worked, or never to the degree at which James could be at any sort of ease. But the other part..

The other part still insists that he  _ does not fail _ . It just doesn't happen. And his brain cannot comprehend it happening; doesn't seem to be able to think of the possible consequences. He doesn’t see any future, any way forward. Because anything less than perfect mission success is unacceptable. Has always been unacceptable.

He recognises Okoye’s strong whispers while he’s led out in the hallway, but Shuri’s voice is firm. “I got this. Just tell my mother to fill in for me until I get back. He’s better with me alone anyway.”

How had it happened? Had he flinched? James does not flinch. He’s everyone’s.. can befriend anyone. It’s training. Second nature. Like dancing. Or shooting. Or playing the piano. All you need is the right tempo, a steady hand. All you need to do is read the little signs; slacken and give at the right time and.. How had he  _ failed? _ The Winter Soldier does not fail… Has never failed; never will.

Somehow, they’ve ended up in his room. Shuri sits him down on his couch. Asks about water, and gets him a glass when he doesn’t answer. Finally, when James has freed enough brain cells to notice the silence, she crouches in front of him and puts a hand on his wrist. “Are you okay?”

“No.” It sounds childish and weak in his ears. But he's not; so why even pretend? The silence is both too loud, and too incomplete: broken by all the little things that fill their ambience. Air streaming past open curtains, the slight hum of electronics. Shuri’s heartbeat; his own blood flowing through his veins. And a simple mantra running through his head. The Solder does not fail. The Soldier does not  _ fail. _

The Winter Soldier  _ never _ fails. Except when he does. 

And when James is honest to himself, or when he listens to Bucky’s jeering voice.. there has been  _ a lot _ of that going around. First there was Steve. Then killing Fury, and Steve  _ again _ and the Triskelion and.. hiding and Oh fuck let’s not even go down that track where he ran from the Black Panther, got right caught and then Siberia and Stark and... 

James sighs, feeling some of the tension bleed out. He’s tired but wired. Tingling skin and churning brain. Why he has failed hardly matters. The mission is in tatters. Beyond repair. James fucked it up, and there won’t be another chance. Not with this, not with M ‘Baku. it’s a sailed ship. But Shuri. 

Shuri is still here; solid and present. Slippered feet sinking into his carpet when she stands; pushes back to regard him with a slight frown. Shuri is still with him and. Shuri is still here, with him. And. and. She leans her hip against the loveseat pairing with his couch. Another thing of beauty in his ridiculously large, ridiculously comfortable rooms. And he supposes he should have sat on in; tried it at least. As he is now trying the couch. It is a good couch. Soft material brushing against his palms when he drops them from his lap; the cushions accommodating his weight just right. Another missed chance, perhaps..

but Shuri..

As long as Shuri is still here. It’s not too late. He can still. As long as she... and it’s too hot; like it always is in Wakanda, even with the air conditioning on. And James always  _ liked _ it that way before. But. But now he’s sweaty and cramped in his own skin and the air seems to be smothering him. But he has to.  _ Has  _ to do it. It’s risky, yes. And last time,.. Last time taking such a risk. on a whim. Served him poorly. But if James lets this moment pass.. 

James reaches with his real hand, tentatively; watches her reaction. A facsimile grin, and two blinks. She reaches back, lets him take her fingers, and tries to say something. Something smart and funny. But James won’t let her. “Don’t leave me,” he tells her. 

She falters, and abandons her attempt at humor. “okay,” she looks like she’s about to cry. “Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”

He pulls to him, guides Shuri so she’s seated next to him. What he really means is:  _ don’t make me leave _ .. What he wants to ask is: keep me with you forever. Instead, he tries: "Why won't T'Challa let me work for you?" 

"Oh James,” she slides her fingers down his palm and takes both his hand in hers. Flesh on flesh on flesh on metal. “It's not so much ‘won't’ let as ‘will not make’." 

_ What is the difference _ , he would like to ask. But that’s not important. The important thing is to minimize the fallout. Make her understand, make her see. Her eyes twinkle in amusement when he takes both her hands in both of his. Fixes her with a look straight in her eyes. "But you did so much for me. You and T’ Challa and everyone. I  _ want _ to do something back. You have to let me repay you,.. somehow?"

She smiles at him crookedly, one elbow coming to rest on the cousins behind them as she twists in a little more towards him. She’s so close he can admire all the little details of her. Her beautiful nose. That little scar on her forehead. The brown of her eyes. "The way my brother sees it, he has been repaying you."

James snorts. Repaying him for what, exactly? For assuming the Winter Soldier had killed his father? A reasonable conclusion. For finally being the one to flush him out of hiding? So the new King of Wakanda was better at spy-work than the world's intelligence community. For trying to take his head off with his Panther-claws? Well,.. he’d missed. 

It all hardly seems like an equal exchange to James. Besides, again, the important thing Shuri needs to know is. "But, i can help you. I want to help _ too _ . And I think I can. I can do so much more than kill, you know."

“I know that,” she says. Too quickly, and James grunts at her.

And so, there it is. As he’d already known. No more missions. No more opportunities. He tries to accept it. Abide by it. But it chaves.. Still. She isn’t  _ wrong. _ She had known he was likely to mess this up; had known it was a long shot, and humored him. 

Maybe Pierce was right. Maybe he  _ is _ past his prime. Over and done; not as sharp as he used to be. Long in the tooth. Maybe it was time to.. to.. What would retirement even mean? What is the end of the line in Wakanda? Probably  _ not  _ the incinerator. No. Not with Shuri. 

A field out back maybe. An old people’s home, or a nice quiet farm where he’ll be sent to spend his golden days? That shouldn’t be so bad. Except. Except he doesn’t  _ want  _ to. Doesn’t want to.. To  _ leave  _ her. James musters up the courage to stare into her eyes. He doesn’t need to even see her face, to read her tells. But maybe he needs to show her. Yes, he can show her. Slowly, James brings her fingers up, then while keeping eye contact, he kisses the middle knuckles. Eyes trained on her. Looking for the first signs to abort, to change the gesture. But, she just stares, mesmerized, as her knuckles reach his lips.

Another moment of held breath, before Shuri sighs. But not before betraying a little flutter. Still, when she speaks she just sounds tired. “Listen James…” But he doesn’t care. If she goes now.. If she leaves him too,.. He’s not.. Besides, he _ saw  _ it. Smells it on her even now. Feels it in her heartbeat as he grabs her shoulders delicately. “Don’t leave me.” he repeats, pulls her close. Kisses her on the lips. 

Shuri lets him for a moment. But then she stiffens, puts a little space between them. She hesitates. “I’m not leaving James. But I have to worry. I was your doctor. And I’m not an idiot.” Half a shake of her head. “You know what I want before I do. And I  _ do _ like you. But are you sure you like me? Or, just the idea of me?”

That confuses him. James knows he wants Shuri. And yes, perhaps he had been wary. Wary of her, at first. And that was just prejudice; his reference is skewed. The women James knew in the USSR had been hard and lean, needing to prove themselves in a man’s world. Those with Hydra worse; viscous to a superlative degree . And the young ones; the geniuses; they were the worst of all. Always harder, more ambitious, more zealous. 

As for any black man willing to join a Nazi cult... There’s just a special kind of self-hate involved with that. 

So yes; he had not trusted; hadn’t believed. Had found what offered too good to be true. Looked for the hidden dagger in her banter.

But now he knows how  _ kind _ she is. How good she is. He wants to be hers like he’s never known anything; wanted anything before. The idea of her? Why? Because she is a scientist and a doctor? Should that scare him? She would not abuse his trust. Would not hurt him; ever. Because she is an idealist; a genius? She would not steer him wrong. No; when the complications of morality and bad and good will get too confusing for him, he knows he can believe in her to keep sight of the truth. Because she is a princess? Something too good to be true? Something he should never be able to attain?

Something that he knows should be out of reach...

Still, she is right next to him. She hasn’t left him. And, damn him. He thinks he can  _ have _ her. Though he is too big, jamese manages to put his head on her lap. It’s a bit of a twist, and he ends up more with his temple against her thigh then his cheek. But. she lets him. Perhaps she means the idea of safety she offers. Protection. Someone to hide behind. Then yes, perhaps, that is what he sees in her. So? What would be so bad about that? Why would Shuri even  _ mind _ ? She’s an idealist, for all her sarcasm and smart mouth. And what do all ideallists want? That’s right. They want to be a  _ hero. _ And a hero news someone to protect.

He lies against her a long time, feeling more calm and assured than he has for a long time. Of course she wants to be a hero. A knight; perhaps not in shining armor, but she would like the cat-suit. It’s obvious. Prince charming? A loser. A pony? She’s already got five. No; Shuri wants her own damsel in distress to save. So, all in James is perfect. The perfect charity case. Putting him back together and fixing him up must be rewarding to her, as well.

But, that’s not enough for him. Not anymore. James cannot just be Shuri’s project. A project is only temporary. And what happens to the damsel when the danger is gone? What if she pronounces him hale? What will happen when the puzzle of him is finished? Her broken white boy fixed, or as close as he can be? 

She will get _ bored. _

And, if there are no more missions. If he cannot work anymore. If he really has become useless and old. Then.. Why would they even keep him here? Why would she even spend time with him. James wants to  _ stay. _

He needs to follow through. He needs to do it now. He can taste it in the air, feel it. He can  _ get _ more. If he can just.. Have her as a  _ true _ friend. He can stop. He needs to be hers.

It’s dark in the room by the time James moves again. He pushes forward and over her till he hovers over her. Not quite leaning. His lips over hers. Shuri startles, groggily, in the dark. A sleepy “hey, you awak..” which he steals; takes, silences. Words he carefully holds between his lips and swallows. Her lips are less soft, after hours at rest. A little open and he gets his first true taste of her. Sweet like honey, sharp like spice and an undertone of coffee. 

And, if he had any decency, he’d realise how young she really is; can’t be far past twenty. And stop himself. Because, he’d ruin her, wouldn’t he? If anything could taint a woman, it would be him. Except, James hasn’t had much decency in a long time. And Shuri.. Shuri is so inherently good he doubts anything could ever dampen her spirit. He feels like he could pour all the darkness in his soul into her and she’d just grow; just become wiser and kinder and stronger for it.

“Shuri..I know exactly what I want.” he implores her, grabs her wrist, paws at her shoulder. And he shouldn’t; she had not queued him to but. But he’s afraid. He feels stupid and weak, in the dark when it should be his element. But, it should be a joke; the worst kind of joke: the Winter fucking Soldier; an undead Asset and a Ghost without a hint of emotion, dabbling into daydreams of romance. 

“I want to be with you… I love you.” 


	12. love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys. This was harder to finish than I thought it would be because I wanted some good senses in there in a good order and.. Well, there’s actually a lot going on. A lot of thinking. And talking. In a sex scene? Which is kind of weirdt because we all know sex and thinking don’t really mix well. So I had to do a lot of rearranging. But, I think I managed it alright.
> 
> Without further ado.. 
> 
> Added Warings: sex smut and very little else. Hopefully good feels?
> 
> Ya boys wanna take some notes. Apparently some of ya don’t know how to do this… so sad.

Shuri’s dark eyes glitter up at him from where she’s slanted against the couch’s side padding. James is poised over her, real arm on the backrest, the other palm fixed against that same side padding. Stones on her intricate hairpiece-dash-tiara touch against the metal of his forearm, chiming almost musically. The corner of her mouth raises. A little amused, a little sleepy. “Hey,” she says after a long moment. Her breath is a little thick but still so sweet and _ good. _

“Hey,” James echos. Though he’d rather just repeat _ IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou. _ She had heard him, hadn’t she? 

Shuri rolls a shoulder, putting one hand to her neck with a slight wince. She blinks; looks around like she’s not even sure where she is. “What time is it?”

And that’s the least important thing. Something she needs not to even think about. But he supposes he’s been laying in her lap and she seems groggy and far-off. She had probably fallen asleep, while he had been distracted and contemplating. Which is.. Perfect?

“Does it matter?” he whispers, slowly dropping down to her lips. A little nibble, then pulling back. Entice her to follow him; challenge her to turn the tables. Then, once more, a soft peck behind her ear. A little nibble at her earlobe, and this time she follows his lips up. Convenient, because James knows he shouldn’t be leaning down on her; especially not this long. Her thin, frail neck must already be hurting from sleeping upright; before baring the brunt of his weight. So when she turns to chase, he lets her topple him and they tumble to the carpet in the dark. 

She laughs; guttural and low. Much lower than her usual chrystal-chimed laughter. “You did that on purpose!”

He did, because this is better; now he can look up at her. And, he has his hands free. Her blue silk dress has ridden up and she straddles him. Taking one, two seconds in the dark just to run his mismatched fingertips lightly over that silk, questing. James drinks in the sensation; lets it flood over him, heady and good and warm. “I love you. I want to make love to you. Will you?”

Shuri is waking up for real now, sobering quickly. And that’s not good. James doesn’t want her to.. She blinks; rubs at a temple, tries again, a little breathless. “Okay. wow? Slow down tiger.”

And no; no way. He wants to speed up. He’s not even hitting his stride here. And damn, he should curse Mohai for putting this into his head. For thinking he could. For thinking he can. “Please, let me make love to you. You.. you are right. I  _ can _ read you. And I know you want me to.” He lifts one knee to topple her, and Shuri catches herself, her palms griping into the shirt, nails slightly scratching his chest. James reaches up, his artificial limb carefully circling between her shoulder and sliding to the small of her back. “I know you want me, too.” 

His other, real hand, continues up. Right into heaven. And up there strokes Shuri’s chin, her cheek, her neck. A dream, too real. He can feel every bump on her skin. Takes in the fine, frizzled texture of the fine braids worked into her headpiece. And when he strokes a little too hard, the teardrop stones chime like a sea over him, half undone from her nap. James tries to remove it; free her of the encombring weight. 

Shuri mocks him, softly, but unfastens the last of the strings and braids herself. She sits up again, sighs as she plays with the pieces in her hands. “You are.. Not wrong. But I’m still not sure it’s a good idea. Especially right now.. After. After last evening. I think. Maybe you are confused right now..?”

But James doesn’t let her; doesn’t let her finish. ”You are so kind,” he tells her, instead. “You are so good. And I’ve wanted you for so long...” he is back to running his palms up and down her sides, thumbs coming just a hint too close to her breasts, but never touching. Inviting; calling, but not taking. He gives her his most ravenous look, which he can only hope she can actually see in the dark. Stares her in the eyes, intently. Shuri frowns down, biting her lip, worrying at it with her perfect teeth. “Even if I do, you need..”

-”I need  _ you; _ ” he agrees with her. “I need you so much.” This time, he does shove; one knee up as he drops back his head against the carpet. She topples, her palms scrambling for carpet next to his head as she comes nose to nose with him. Shuri makes half a sound on half an exhale, and the way her fingers bunch the fabric of her shirt; the way the smell of her, the sound of her heartbeat surround him. He thinks he has her; just as long as she.. as long as she doesn’t worry, for  _ him _ . 

James swallows, so close to her now. Reasoning is  _ her _ forte, he knows. Using it so much is jarring. But, he needs her to see. It needs to be tonight. “I’m not asking for your hand or your undying love or anything. I’m not even asking you to stay till morning. Just give me now.”

“Oh good.” Shuri giggles. “I am far too young to marry.” She stares down one cocky eyebrow up. And even knowing it’s mostly bluster, he cannot disagree. She may be an angel, maybe a princess. But, she is more than willing to come down her pedestal for him. It’s such a generous, kind thing. Yet, she is sharp too. If James waits too long, she will pass him by. 

“Too young,” he agrees, with slow, soft touches as he circles down to her hips, “too beautiful.,” moves further out, backward, kneading just a little deeper as he holds the cheeks of her ass. “Too smart.”

She laughs again, grinning mischievously, juts out her chin, nearly touching his. “Got that right.” Then she groans and slumps, eyes fluttering shut when he wiggles slightly under her, bumping against her core. If his voice in her ear is feverish, James cannot help it. “How could this be bad? I haven’t loved anyone in such a long time. And I know I can.. trust you. Are you telling me, I ruined it? Because of the dinner party? Please don’t let that deny... deny us both. Please tell me a little setback such as that is not important to you.. that it would make you stop loving me?”

“Of course not!” Outraged, Shuri sits back. “But this might not be the best time. I have work. You just had a lousy day..” 

His slacks were already too tight when he lifted his knees to bump her, the cut now too tight to accommodate him. But it was a pleasant tightness; the head of his dick trying to worm its way under the singed waist, stuck dangerously close to the top teeth of his fly. But now, as she pushes her ass back against him to berate him, James has to gasp for his own breath “So, pull me out.” he manages through clenched teeth, “let me feel good. Let me make you feel good.” He stares into her eyes again, willing that connection. That understanding of two opposites to resurface, emphasising. “I am feeling  _ really good _ right now.”

She sighs, though this feels like a last objection. “James, I have work. I have to help my brother. Talk to M’Baku, we only have tonight and tomorrow, before they make the march back up the mountain,..”

“You are going to talk with him now? At two o’clock at night?” James reasons, whispering up at her in the dark. Doesn’t she know how good he can make her feel. The thought stops him cold, hands stuttering to stillness. “You are not, I mean. Not a virgin, are you?”

“What..?” She straightens, a hint of a vulva pushing off against his abdomonals, making something warm loosen inside him in that old, familiar way. She laughs, “no. No  _ way _ . I'm turning twenty in June. And this isn’t your puritain America. We actually grow into our relationships. Instead of, I don't know, repressing until we can’t anymore and getting shit-faced drunk,” she snorts, too casual. “There have been one of two men, I’ll have you know.”

James humms, pleased. Because he’ll take that quite literal, with all that false bluster. And it’s obviously a sensitivity. Which means, he is finally at the advantage. He tangles his fingers behind her, getting stuck in silky lace that could almost be european, with the unnecessarily complicated way it’s tied at the back. 

The urge to buck his hips, to touch her again, up there, where he knows she is already pleasantly warm, is almost overpowering. But James stills now, waits for her. Lets her choose. Because he knows.. She is not weak. Not delicate. But, she is fine and his hands nearly fit around her mid-section if he spreads his fingers. He mustn't hurt her. Mustn't push. Her grin turns mischievous, decision made. “I.. well, as long as we’re doing good.” 

This time, he can tell she grinds down on him on purpose. “So, what? You think you got something special down there?”

“Not particularly.”James pulls himself down, using his feet, wiggling one arm, then the other, under her. “But, I know  _ you _ do.” He gives her a wink when he disappears under the fabrik. It’s hot and stuffy, but her crooning laughter when he grabs the lace of her panties between his teeth is well worth it. A moment later James gets his chin in there and pushes fabrik away, honed in on the prize. And Shuri is laughing at him, protesting loudly. 

James doesn’t quite catch her babbling, but the words ‘ foreplay’, and ‘building up to it’, definitely feature in. He knows he’s doing fine though. By now the smell of her is so strong, so enticing he doubts either of them could bear to stop. She sags a little, legs like soft noodles, as he puts his tongue against that little nub. And she croons, protests again about too-much, too fast, but her hips just grind down on him, pushing for more. 

And, James could lose himself in this. Take this miracle, this kindness and just accept it for what it is. The feel, the taste of her; the way she’s nearly squeezing his jaw off when she tries to come closer, push lower. Stow away the memory and guard it, somewhere safe. Bury it so deep that not even Hyrda and their stupid chair could ever take it from him. Not for long. Not without it coming back.

By the time James comes up for breath; frees himself of the loops of her dress and sits up to kneel in front of her, she is shaking; holding one palm to her mouth. He smiles at her apologetically, holding eye contact a moment longer than he’s usually comfortable with. Her smokey eyes, the sudden uneven rhythm breath. Shuri is still pulling at his shirt, so he lifts up a little; raises his arms; lets her lift it over his head and free him. Even if she obviously wasn’t aware yet that that was what she was going for. 

After a moment he gestures with his metal hand. “The old one did a nice fibrating grind but…,” James shakes and flexes twice, before the black metam hums in an agreeable fashion. He meets her eyes again in triomph. She is so perfect; a princess in every way, one regal eyebrow up to challenge the mere  _ suggestion _ that her work was anything but perfect. James smiles for real, something warm in his belly, something beyond the lust already straining him. Just at the thought of having such a champion in his corner. “I guess this one really is better in every way.”

James moves around her, right arm supporting the princess as she sags against his chest. He pushes his lips against her. And she opens, soft and willing. So he follows her in, tongue behind her row of teeth, feeling carefully where she guides him. Behind the lower teeth, touching the floor of her mouth. And when invited further, intertwining his tongue with hers. And then, he puts the knuckle of his left index against her clit, and she sputters into his mouth.

In a way this is new to him too. To feel the heat of her, the way her folds move and rearrange like an opening flower. He can get even more from her, using his new senses, feeling depth and warmth and density change and change again. He can follow that sensitive nub so easily, so effortlessly, it’s hardly fair. Shuri is panting and gripping him hard, nails biting into his shoulders. “Slow down.. Too much!”

“No.” he disagrees, daring. “Not enough,” and chases her deep inside. Flexing that hand so hard it shakes like it’s freezing. It makes a soft sound he doubts anyone but he can hear. Like chimes in a window. And Shuri.. Shuri becomes loud. Her breath, the beat of her heart. The way every muscle inside of her is poised and hard. Cresting a top of a hill. James kisses her, deeply.

She pulls away from his mouth, drawing a desperate breath before cursing seven ways in Xhoshia, English and even the secret Wakandan language he is not supposed to know. And crashes down like the sea, a wave onto the breakers. 

James’s grin might be gleeful, but he expects the dark hides the worst of it. “Guess that’s a little more than one or two boys got you, huh?” Kids the same age as her, no doubt. fumbling around and testing their maturing bodies. Wakanda is a lot less prude about it, but they obviously have not given these boys of hers much practice. Which, honestly, is a shame. For them. Not for James.

-”Fuck. I.. Mom talked about this. The Dora kept.. I guess now I understand why Okoye kept.. nagging.. I guess I never took it far enough.” Shuri is still unbalanced, and his metal hand is wet and warm. James shudders a little, at getting to experience something so intimate with black vibranium. Shuri growls, pulling him out; giving him a shove. “Fine; fine, James.” her voice is rough and annoyed but it’s mostly just bluster, he thinks. “Bed, now.”

James grins wolfishly, tempted to pick her up, but.. Instead just lets himself be backed up through the hall.; into the next room. Her kisses are hungry now, like he’d expected them to be. And he lets her back him up, all the way through his too-long hallways, back to his bedroom. When the back of his knees hit the posts, he drops back gracefully, undoes the fly of his pants and takes it all off in one practiced motion: pants, underpants and shoes. Then leans back on his elbows.

Shuri has found the light switch, and managed to step out of the disheveled mess of her own dress. Stark naked but for the few bracelets on her wrists, she is even more beautiful in full light. The way she cocks one hip out, accenting the dark pubid hair covering her still-swollen vulva. The hard lines of lean muscle on her body, as she brings one hand to rest on her hip. Some of the braids have come loose from where they were done up, framing her neck. She is.. gorgeous.

And she is studying him. And.. James feels a sudden burst of self-consciousness. Because it has been. Literal  _ decades _ . Luckily, James’s body never fails him. Pulls through everytime, when he needs it to. It’s the best thing about it. It’s the worst thing about it. His dick is at attention, happily staring up at him. And when Shuri takes a moment too long to study him in the light, James is confident he looks pretty good. Sure, the arm is an acquired taste. But, still.

Oh course, then she kneels down and runs a questing hand over the seam. Her eyes frowning in confusion. And James thinks that’s quite enough thank you; he pulls her hand down and locks lips with her once again, stopping any stupid questions. She will probably ask later. But right now; right now..

“Wait. wait. Did you even think of protection?” she admonishes, looking around.

James shrugs. “I was frozen for over a year. That should have killed any germs?”

“Oh, you silly man.” Shuri snorts, back in her element, as she rummages through his bedside drawer. “I’m not looking to be pregnant yet. What, did you think I was swallowing those pills without need?” Her motor-mouth is back to it’s usual syllables-per-minute, but the inflection is still tainted with need.

After a moment, she turns, victorious, with a condom in hand. Which apparently Wakandans just stock like the basics in every room. Like oil, or baking powder. James would tell her not to worry. But then, ‘ _ no babies yet _ ’ suggests she might want to be pregnant in the future. “Oh, right. Might be safer,” he agrees, feeling inexplicably sad. But, James shakes himself out of it. It’s not important now. 

She crawls over him, giving the length of him a good lick. And what she lacks for mastery Shuri definitely makes up for in enthusiasm. James could let her play with him all night; but after barely a minute the rubber goes over and he knows she still needs to _ feel _ . Probably feels empty and hollow inside. So, he topples her, reversing their positions and carefully takes hold of her asscheeks, her knees in the crook of his elbows.

She frowns up at him, obviously worried about the amount of friction he’s going for. But, “trust me,” he admonishes. And she relaxed. Because Shuri  _ does _ trust him. And, indeed, despite how hard he’s gotten he goes in smoothly, only needing one rub against her sweet, wet pussy lips. It’s a shame about the condom. James would have liked to feel a lot more. But the expression on her face and the way she goes lacks after just a few thrusts is afrodesiac enough, and soon enough he’s spurting his seed safely inside the rubber.

They still, and he kisses her temple. Shuri chuckles, tiredly. “Well, that was.. Something else.”

James humms, and turns away a moment to remove the now-offending piece of rubber. Hurrying to dispose of it into a bin in the corner, then stretches, looking down at it. The feeling of contentment; foreign in its completeness, is overpowering. James had known he could do well. And he might have taught the Princess something useful. He’d really turned this night around. And he feels.. feels proud. 

But when he turns around he realises he might have taken too long. Because by the time he turns back to her, Shuri is flagging; half asleep. And when he prompts her, sliding next to her with his metal hand on her biceps, James gets no answer except a pleased sounding mumble.

Shuri sighs, content and sated and at ease. Just like James feels, right now. She rolls over, using his flesh arm for a pillow and cozies up in his satin sheets. After a moment to stare, James slots against her, his real arm under her. Turns his chest towards her and puts his chin carefully against the crown of her head. The left, heavier one he drapes over the blankets. Careful to only let the fingers rest on her thigh. Then he lets out a content sigh, and affects to sleep. 

He has her.


	13. Game of Chess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just a little r&r back in the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Racism exists. It is the argument that made slave trade possible, and allows its modern counterparts in jails and third-world sweatshops and mines and what else.  
> And it is bad for all of us. Bad for our own wages, bad for talent we missed; great doctors and scientists that never were. Bad for equality, and bad for our society, as a whole. For our conscience, for the joys we missed. Friends never made, lovers never met.  
> Racism is inside all of us, and it is destroying us.  
> We need to end it. Today.  
> Black lives matter.  
> -(past chapter ahoy)  
> Added warning:  
> -Reverence to experimental medical procedures.  
> Blood & gore. (after “The American hands the papers back”)

“Bakushka, do not touch it.”

“What?”, the American asks, pulled from his careful consideration of the chessboard. Yakov sighs, picks his ruler from among his paper and stretches across the small table between them to tap his right hand. A hand that has made its way down from his upper arm again. To his elbow; to the bulge under his flannel shirt, where hidden under a fresh dressings flesh changes to plastic and metal. After a confused moment, the American nicknamed Bakushka stills that misbehaving hand: caught in the act; scratching. 

With his own sigh he pulls away from that ever-present itch; from his new left arm, cradled against himself in that half-hug that seems most comfortable. He casts half an apologetic grin to the newly minted Captain Yakov, and a quick glance towards the man’s fiancee as well.: Lady Angelica. She appears in deep consideration of her tea, eyes demurely down towards her lap, where a fine china cup-and saucer rests; the little veranda table hardly has space for the chessboard and Yakov’s papers, so she has put proprietary aside for this daily arrenement. The American has to wonder why she bothers; coming over to drink tea and watch him get his ass handed to him over this apparently important game.

With deliberate effort he puts his real hand on the table and turns back to the board in front of him. His knight is in trouble, that’s for sure. But there’s a check in there somewhere, he thinks. Another thing to consider is the bishop's lines. He frowns, thinking over the sounds of Yakov’s rustle of work papers, and Lady Angelica’s polite sounds of delicate China as she sips her tea.

The Lady Angelica is always watching, these days. She comes by Yakov’s country house every day since he was invited here to recover from surgery. She makes a trip over an hour and back again, driven right up to the veranda stairs by chauffeured automobile. Bakushka may have some memory problems, but she smells of old money and class. Why such a dame would waste her time watching her future husband teach an amputee with a prototype prosthesis chess is beyond him.

Hell, he doesn’t even understand how Yakov has managed to snag such a fine dame. Though her bearing suggesets maturity she cannot be over twenty-five, and she is stunning to look at, with perfect manners and poise. A ballerina indeed; she has the perfect figure for it under her minx coat and fur-trimmed dress. So she took a fall; he has seen her walk from the car to the veranda porch, and he has yet to detect a limp.

At least he is getting better. Better at chess, and better with the claw he has been fitted for a hand. Although, it still itches. And it’s hard to concentrate- so hard. Because of all those-the noise. His eyes rove the board for a minute, rubbing the sweat from his lip with his right sleeve. It’s early spring; still cold out. Though Yakov promises summer in the open plains of Russia will be hot. Then again, today Bakushka feels clammy and sweaty like he’s stuck inside one of those tanks in the full sun. So perhaps summer is in early this year.

Bakushka. Yakov has apparently decided on a name for him, though the American is not sure he likes it. Bakushka means little tank. Still, it’s a step up from  Нежитью. Probably. The American puffs out another breath, looks out from the porch unto a quiet tundra. He’s tired and irritable and he doesn’t even know why; he’s being given the royal treatment. Granted an experimental procedure to replace his missing arm. One meant for Russian soldiers of merit, not a nameless American found in a Camp Lab so far away from the front no-one knows how he could have gotten there. 

Yakov, getting him in and offering up his own home for his recovery. Angelica, supportive of his every attempt and gracing him with her presence. There really is little to complain about. Except. Except. 

Something whistles; snaps over the knuckles of his right hand, hard and sharp, and he jumps back in his chair. The sting takes a moment to set in, and he blinks. Then he looks around to Angelica, still as a statue, eyes delicately and lips still behind the rim of her cup. Pretending not to have seen.

The one they like to call Bakushka flexes his real hand against the sting, feeling stin pull and pulse. “Don’t,” he breathes, feeling very much like something carrying explosives. But he really doesn’t want to lose his temper; especially not in front of a dame. Perhaps her presence here could be explained that way. Perhaps she is here to make sure he.. Or, perhaps he is being paranoid. He’s been feeling off all day. A little slap like that; why he had worse from his teachers back in school. Probably. He thinks. Not that the American can remember any actual teachers. Or even an actual school. But. But, he thinks he remembers he  _ hated _ it. 

He’s not willing to let it go yet though, so he lets his annoyed frown turn to Yakov full force. “Don’t  _ do _ that.”

The Captain grunts back at him from his side of the coffee table, wooden ruler still in his hand as he rifles through his papers. Then turns towards his fiancee, smiling at the straight-back, perfect lady in apology. “I am sorry Dama, but he mustn’t scratch..”

Miss Angelica smiles perfectly, just a hint of her perfect teeth peeking behind perfect redded lips. Perfect, fine and dandy in her white lace dress, with her hair done up in perfect curls, perfect minx over her shoulder to keep the cold at bay. Over for tea, as she is every day at one-thirty. She is always right on time. There is a word for that, too. Oh, yes. “Scratching does make it worse. I dare say, this is an exciting game.” she turns the full force of her radiant expression on the American, consporationally. “I used to slouch, you know? But my second year tutor set me straight. Swish right between the shoulderblades. Had my first-year’s tutor been as delegated she could have saved me a lot of pain. The earlier you unlearn, the easier.”

The American bites his tongue. He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like that at all. The condensation. The amount of self-righteousness. Like at the dinner, where he’d met Angelica. Finding himself put in front of a full five-course meal, french-style. With all the different knives and forks and him stuck with only one hand. The way she’d downplayed his apology, because he could get a do-over after the surgery. Which he hadn’t even been sure about and..

And now he’s fucking having second thoughts. The American shakes his head at himself. He’s just tired. And. hot. Not sleeping enough. Irritable. And putting off the inevitable. He grabs the table with his good, right hand; braces himself. Then, with the other, artificial construct, he reaches out. Lets the elbow fall and extend, using gravity and momentum and the almost-intact biceps to slow. Anything to spare the flayed, newly repaired triceps. Bearth speeding up, muscles from his shoulders to his back burning with unwarranted tension. Next the pinches; something amazing that when he imagines balling his left hand into a fist results in the metal tripod’s points coming together like tweezers. He guessed the distance right. And the angle, the torque; even the pull. Another huff and the tweezer points close around the neck of a pawn.

Now, for the hard part. To take the pawn forward, Bakushka needs to extend the elbow and lift from the shoulder. Preferably at the same time. Lifting from the shoulder is not a problem; everything in his shoulder is practically undamaged. But the extension.. That is going to take some work from the triceps, and they are no longer his own. Like jello one moment, and unyielding wood the next; he has no idea who works them, but it’s not him. And god, trying hurts.

The American grunts out air between his teeth, angling forward, twisting and trying to compensate for an arm that one moment doesn’t move, then moves too far; nearly throwing a knight on his path; which he saves by a quick upward jerk from his seat. It is agonising, slow progress, but the pawn manages it’s two squares forward. And finally, mercifully, the release goes perfectly for once.

“Hah!” he crows in victory, snagging the still-hanging construct and pulling it against himself. High on adrenaline, he stands for a moment, then drops back to his chair panting. The wood squeaks beneath him in protest.

Yakov grunts, unfreezing from his rather worried expression. “good.” 

“Damn right,” then with a quick look at Angelica’s still face, “sorry.”

But Yakov obviously doesn’t mind. This time, when he reaches out, his hand is empty. He pats the American twice on the shoulder, then grabs him behind the neck with a playful yank, shaking a finger. “Our little Bakushka is getting better,” he turns towards his future wife, leans backward, stretching his legs. “I think I’ll need to pay attention now. Bishop to E-5, if you please.“ 

Then sits back, and stares at the American expectantly.

“Er. What?” he frowns back at their waiting stars. “Bishop to eduard-five, Bakushka. If you’d please move my piece.”

The American blinks at the board. It’s..He knows they are trying to help him; knows this is supposed to be physical therapy. And he has been managing his own moves well today; much better than before. Though there is still a lot of undignified grunting and pulling and manipulating involved. Today for the first time, he hasn’t  _ dropped _ any pieces. 

But this, taking the bishop from the far side and. “With the left..?” It’s going to involve stretching his metal elbow. All the way. And he knows this is important. This. This is fucking torture. 

“Of course, Bakushka. that is the point.” 

“Can’t.” It’s impossible; he needs the help of his good right to even stretch it down and out against himself. And. He’s already exhausted. Sweating and tired. The other side of the board might as well be the other side of Europe… 

Another meaningful look passes from Yakov to his future wife, and after a moment she puts down her teacup with a sigh. “Bakushka. Our wedding is in thirty-one days. I would like to make sure you realise my darling has made it clear that you are, very much, invited.” the American twitches; even her english is perfect. Which is really disconcerting as he’s heard her speak plenty of Russian as well. But then, she was with the kind of ballet company that would have travelled the world. Now she’s fixing him with a look. “It was fine with just us at the table, dear friend. But I will not be embarrassed in front of my entire family by a boorish American that cannot even hold a fork.”

“Seven course dinner. Whole fish, caviar, lamb cutlet..” The Lieutenant smacks his lips. “I’ll make sure there will be enough even for your bid American appetite, yes?”

Gut suddenly heavy, he averts his gaze. “That’s. An honor. But.” It gives him six and a half weeks.That sounds like a lot, until he remembers three weeks have passed since the surgery. Sure, he’s made some progress, but. 

“Njet. Don't scratch.” the ruler comes down again, but this time he evades it; pulls the good right hand away just in time. The ruler lands on his upper left arm instead. He howls, closing in around the arm, suddenly nauseous. “I can’t help it,” he growls after taking a moment to swallow, “It Itches!”

The itching and the burning and the _damn crickets chirping;_ chirping. Fucking noise. Lady Angelica smiles at him again, somewhere between kind and long-suffering and he tries to behave.. Really. But his fucking missing arm is one _fire_ ; hurst so much more than before the surgery. He can’t even sleep, and when he does he dreams. Dreams all wrong, of things that _cannot_ have happened. He’s one the operating table, but it’s the Nazi’s that are operating. And a little bespeckled creep keeps quizzing him with math problems. _What is pi in ten decimals?_ _How much is five-thousand-sevenhundred-and six to the power of two?_ And it always starts with three, the answer. But he can never remember..

But, that’s all wrong. Isn’t it? He remembers, they kept him in a cage. They never took him out, did they? And besides, he’s asked Yakov. There was no operating theatre in the place where they’d saved him from… is he going mad? No, perhaps he already is..

“I..” He just knows. Knows he can’t do it. The anger abates, but. “I quit. I fold you win.” A quick swipe with his right topples his King. He is done.

From the corner of his eye, he notices Yakov twitch restlessly, then Angelica is clearing her voice. “Bakushka, please!” her tone is measured, pleasant over outrage. “You have been given a  _ gift _ . One many would kill for. Why, if only the Army would waste their resources on ballerinas.”

“It fucking  _ hurts _ .” he bites at her, and something. Something changes.

She smiles, or bares her teeth at him. It is the realest expression he’s seen on her yet. A fire and a rage behind her eyes that were always measured and perfect before. “It  _ hurts _ , you say?” her voice jumps, and he sears he can smell her rage, hear her heart beat hard and loud in defiance. “I’d dance on  _ glass, _ if given a stage. I’d dance on burning coal. Hell, I’ve danced on infected scabs and missing toenails, just so the show could go on. En pointe I’d have you know. It  _ hurts?” _ her fingers tremble on the chine cup. “What is a little pain if you can be whole; what is a little pain if people will see you, if you can still be someone?”

The American still doesn’t  _ care _ . He tries to straighten out, give her a good glare, because: “I don’t know what you’re complaining about lady.” whatever is wrong with her leg can’t be all that bad. “You can walk fine..”

Her expression morphs; something he’d call a shit-eating grin on anyone else. And she sticks out her leg, out to the side where the table doesn’t obscure the view. Toes delicately extended, and pulls up the hem of her dress. 

The American pulls a shocked breath when she hitches up her skirt for him, almost all the way to her knee. But, it’s not propriety that does it. 

“Quite the sight isn’t it?” Angelica sounds  _ amused. _ “I  _ can _ walk. I could dance; I _ would _ dance on it. But it does look dreadful, doesn’t it?”

It does, honestly. Even covered with panty. Her thin, frail foot extends and bloats, somewhere after the heel, then returns to the contours of a normal leg somewhere halfway up her shin. Her other foot joins the first, and the difference is even more obscene. “And this is when I only walk a little you see. It gets worse with.. too much aggravation. So you can see, I  _ could _ still dance. But no-one would pay to see…” she grins, teeth out and bare and.. And he can see it now. Her pain. “Now, do you want to know if it  _ hurts? _ ”

He feels chastised, this time. Really. Childish. He’s supposed to be a man. All that. But. It just seems impossible. He wants to. Really he does but. The American averts his gaze, returning to that bishop. So very far away. He understands her point, honestly. “I.. No. It’s just that…” right now. Right now, all he can do is lament his choices that brought him up to this point. Lament that damn surgery.

So far, all the arm has giving him is backaches and fucking tiching. 

And, apparently, a rash, he surmises as he pulls up his sleeve to expose the hot skin to merciful cold air. From the join at his elbow all the way right up his shoulder has turned a nasty shade of pink. And Jesus, the _ itching _ . “I don’t think it’s setting right. This can’t be normal.”

Angelica is still and straight-backed again, but Yakov makes a dismissive sound. “You know what doctors say. Wait ten more days, then they check.”

“I know what they said. But I can’t take it anymore.” the American gesticulates, shifts from left to right in his chair. “I can’t even fucking  _ sleep _ with this -it’s like mange! It.” Suddenly, everything is clear. Simple. “It needs to come off.” 

He wraps his right hand around the hot skin of his left upper arm, the palm a fresh balm where skin meets skin. Even the part he can’t get to due to the bandages feels cooler, calmer with his real hand over it. He squeezes, wrings, then stops. Grunts and swallows; down his lunch, which tries to come back up. It hurts, in a nauseating way that sickens him and weakens him. 

But it is like pulling on a scab, the pain no longer a deterrent against the promise of an end. He pulls harder, until stabbing and ebbing become so strong he thinks he might pass out. The meat of his arm feels heavy and wrong. Like a skin of water, with something hard and sharp inside. Yet that construct of an elbow remains unmoved. No give. He pulls again. “Fool American, stop!” 

He does not; until he hears the tell-tale whistle in the air, that fucking  _ ruler _ again. But, not again. He catches it; up in one motion. Towers over the stout Captain. Small now, though he tries to follow the American to his feet. Slow; too slow and  _ weak.  _ The table between them is gone. Something wooden groans, above and at his side. “Don’t fucking _ do  _ that,” he snarls. 

Chess pieces clatter to the ground. Both men stand, chest nearly touching, the ruler diagonally between them like a sword held at both ends. Both heaving for breath. Him, glowering down, eyes to slits. Yakov with wide eyes, frozen like a deer in headlights. After what seems an eternity the Russian Captain sucks in a breath, slinks back and abandons his ruler, one hand at his uniform’s belt. Cowering. Fingers twitching towards the regiment pistol at his side. 

The American raises his chin an inch, stares Yakov in the eye, some part of him daring.. Challenging. 

“Oh, dear.” the two men turn as one. Miss Angelica is still seated, perfect as ever, teacup halfway to her mouth, her free hand hovering in front of her o-shaped mouth. “What a mess..” her pose seems contrived, but it’s a thin veneer. A sharp tang of fear hangs in the air, and he. This time the American knows he can hear her heartbeat. 

Hear both their heartbeats. Like little rabbits. Both of them. Little game caught out playing in the field by a big, bad tiger. The Captain’s eyes twitch, eyes dancing away, back again in near panic. The American turns, and gasps in his own breath.

The devastation is.. He. 

Bakushka indeed. 

The patio wood must not have been very good quality. Yet still.. A hot thread of shame creeps up the American’s neck, as he surveys the damage. The ballusade making up the border between the patio and the gardens is gone, only a few destroyed poles left, snapped like twigs. The second story floor, which makes up the patio’s ceiling; that’s  _ structural _ wood. He’d expected a little more of that. And yet the chessboard is stuck through it, dug in deep like a knife through butter, little more than half sticking out straight above them. 

And somewhere, out at least thirty yards in the garden field, what is left of their table lies, intertwined table-legs sticking up from the mud.

“I.” What a tantrum.

“Sorry.” he. He is. “sorry.”

“You are embarrassing me in front of the fiancee.” Yakov finally finds his voice, “please, sit down.”

The American does, shame burning his face. That had been uncalled for. Yakov has been the one to take him in. The  _ only _ one. The only one not afraid. Until now. Because now he had. had to.. Had to.. “Sorry. Sorry.” he’s just been hurting so bad it’s hard to think and every day is the same, with the smiling, perfect Miss Angelica measuring him and Yakov, only coming close with his ruler and.. And. “I’ll.. I’ll pick up the pieces. Clean up.” If he uses the metal left he’ll be busy way past dinner time. But he kind of deserves that, after acting like an animal in front of a lady like that.

Yakov tuts, all fake bravo. “It’s okay. I will help. After I show my lady out. But I would like to show you my choice of placement. Perhaps this will be better motivation?”

After a few moments, Yakov finds one of his papers, retrieves it from where it had fluttered to the floor. And as Yakov extends a shaking hand, the American abandons the construct he’s been hugging, bringing up his own, surprisingly steady hand. Yakov ‘s voice is nearly steady as he hovers over him and explains. “After the wedding, I am invited to work in East-Berlin. I wanted to ask you to come with.”

“WereWolfs?” He asks,

And Yakov grunts. “Apparently, not all the Nazis are dead yet.”

The first picture is just a graffiti swastika. Still, it calls something inside of him. A memory, or a dream. This one, he thinks, is from the cages. “Es Funktioniert nicht.” Real; has to be. The stink in his nose, like blood gone bad. “Noch Ein Mall.”

Again and again, until the words lose meaning. And, the arm. it burned. Burned then too. But different. “Yeah. Yeah. that, that sounds,” he could. He may have a temper. But that’s the Nazi’s fault. “Sounds good,” he could definitely go for killing more Nazi’s.

The American hands the papers back, eager to be rid of them. Or tries; they stick to his thick, heavy fingers. Right hand, too heavy now. Smudging the paper with black. Angelica stutters in uneven breath. “Yakov, meelyi..!”

The one they call Bakushka frowns, arm still extended towards Captain Yakov, in hopes that he will relieve him of the papers. He needs to scratch. Again. Though it feels a little better now; that left arm. Better, but wet. And so do the fingers of his flesh hand. 

Yakov’s face goes through a cycle of expressions that start in confusion and end in worry. A cold hand lands on his shoulder. “Sit. Never mind chess. Sit. I will call doctor.”

The American sits back in his chair. Lifts the paper higher, his fingers to his face; the smudged paper; uncomprehending even as he gags at the smell. His blood is black.


	14. morning love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> someone is in love...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thank you everyone for sticking with me. Ho boy, we are nearly at the top of the ride. Don’t look down!
> 
> Added warnings: emotional and sexual manipulation. Questionable morals.

She wakes up in stages; slow and sure and comfortable in all her self-assured bliss. Safe in his arms, like an enigma, impossible yet real in all her tangible details. The dimple in her cheek as she dreams, the slight dent on her jaw, from a fold in her pillow, fading slowly after she rearranges her head; the imprint on her face for long, slow minutes. 

Shuri tosses again, and he notices the small scar on her forehead; so fine even he can only see it from up this close, and it catches the sunlight as she twitches in her dream, stretches and turns. A radiant goddess at rest, she blinks her eyes before she’s gone again, never really awake.

It is a wonder to look at her, so out of place; outside of his reality. Or  _ should _ have been. A reclining, relaxing figure that belongs more on canvas than here, in his bed. And yet, there is no moment of lost composure, no tensing when she notices her loss of barings; not even a confusion about where she’s waking up. Finally she stretches, and slits open half an amused eye to stare back at him. “Morning.”

“Morning.” James grins down at her from his head atop of his real hand, elbow propping him up for a better view. He could look at her for hours more; watch as the rising light throws her silhouette in different shades; take in every creeping shadow and reflection. It’s nearly a shame she’s awake. 

Though  _ awake _ opens up the merit of other options. _ Better _ options.  _ Sweeter  _ options.

At his cheeky upturn of the lips she frowns. “How long have you been lying there staring at me? Did you even get any sleep?”

Honestly compels him to say: “how could I close my eyes, when I have the most beautiful star ever made right here shining in my bed?”

The princess snorts at him, nostrils flapping in a very undignified gesture. “Oh, Great Panther have mercy. You  _ really _ are the King of Cliché’s.”

“Hmm,” James offers, bending down to reach her lips with his, her smell; her essence enveloping like a spring day; his own scents mingling with hers. Like he’s part of her. “You love my tacky come-ons. They are  _ vintage _ .”

“Ain’t that the truth.” She drawls, making space for words as she turns away from him, falls to her back. “Boy, they belong in a  _ museum _ .”

Well, he  _ did _ find Bucky in a museum. That should count. “So, what are we doing this morning?”

And he- James wishes. Wishes for her to say; for her to stay. Just stay all morning, all afternoon and evening and  _ forever. _ But, that’s a bit much. And in the light of morning. In the light of day, and the real world, he already  _ knows. _

“Ah, I can’t stay long. I have a meeting in the afternoon. And I need to prepare.” She moves to the edge of the bed, reaching out for her dress, bringing it up to her face, squinting in the morning light. “And this is ruined. Guess I’ll be visiting my seamstress. Again.”

And yes, James knows. He shouldn’t presume. But he wants more of her. Of her time, her attention. And he shouldn’t demand. He shouldn’t  _ take _ . But, he’s good at that; at taking and he just wants to.. Just wants to be... 

Shuri sighs, straightens, blue dress pulled against her skin as she sits up, serious. Pulling his attention; taking him from his thoughts. “We also.. We need to look into finding you a different doctor.”

Wait.  _ What? _

If James freezes. If he turns away. If he sits up, tense hands on his knees; if he stops breathing and some of the fear shows in his eyes. Well. well, that’s just. Just plain honestly. He would not try to  _ hide _ this from her. 

Shuri takes one look at his face, and knows. Knows; and not knows, apparently, because she continues too airily. “It’s just not professional for me to be your doctor. After.. this. During this. With this?”she stutters, her eloquence failing her for once. “If this happens again. If you want it to? Spirits. this is..” she frowns at him. “You are making this hard. I can still come with you; to your appointments. But I’m thinking Doctor Isikhova, that nice old lady? Do you think you’d be okay with her..?”

James blinks at her and turns away, nearly laughs when she struggles to give him other options. Does she really think he’s afraid of who his doctor is? Does she think he  _ cares, _ if it’s not her..? He feels cheated; stolen from. Feels like a dog that had just found a beautiful bone, then when it turned around, overjoyed, found it’s dinner bowl and content gone. He’s. James is. “I don’t want a  _ different  _ doctor. I want  _ you. _ ”

She blinks at him, her list of apparently Wanda’s many professionals cut short, when she sets her jaw. “You do realise I was never practitioning, just overseeing this as a special case?”

Eye Contact is suddenly a struggle, when it was second nature just a few passionate hours ago. Yet he fights for it; this is worth it. Turns toward her. Touch; a hand to her shoulder. The new one; though he knows it’s simple manipulation. “I want  _ you. _ I only ever wanted you.”

It is not a lie; it’s an absolute truth. There was nothing before her. No _ I _ before her, no meaning. No life. If he was before her, he was someone else. A different James, a different person. A creature born from the ruins of old memories and an even older body. She. She gave him color. Meaning. Personality. She built him with loving hands like Geppetto’s perfect, female counterpart. 

Fear spurs him on, a kiss to that bare shoulder, whispering into her ear. “I’m not ready, not yet.” Because James knew; knew, he was but a project. Knew she’d cut him loose one day. But not yet. He hasn’t had enough time yet. James had though he’d had months to work up to this. Months to cement himself at her side; dig himself a place under her skin until life without him just feels like a distant dream. Like his life before her seems. Time to find a use for his talents and let her lean on him, as he leans on her. Not in the same way. Not the same. A clutch to her when she is his sun, but “Shuri, you know, you are my friend?”

“What? Yes. of course.” She _ says _ it. But she doesn’t know what it  _ means _ … He. James should.. But he cannot explain. He cannot ask. It’s too early. Too soon. This is delicate. James knows what he wants; what he needs from her is  _ delicate _ , especially with her; especially in Wakanda.

“Hey, look at me. Don’t do this.” there’s a hand on his jaw, fine long fingers surprisingly strong. Firm. sure. Shuri guides him to look at her and she flashes half a grin. “I cannot guess what you are thinking. What you are feeling. Not like  _ you _ can guess for me. What are you afraid of?”

“I let you down. I let you down with the Mountain King.” And now, his uselessness is established. Even she, perfect that she is. No;  _ definitely _ she, perfect and noticing the blemishes that make up this jig-saw self. The puzzle she’s tried to force back together. Notice the poison before he can bury himself under her skin, like a tick. She will not want... No. He cannot even  _ say _ it. Cannot think it.

After a long moment, Shuri sighs, puts a long arm around him, her breast touching his metal shoulder. Her manner consoling instead of sensual, no matter what his very-sensitive artificial touch tells him. “Don’t worry about it. M’Baku is like that with everyone. Especially outsiders. It’s posturing, mostly.” then, a binks, following his line of thought mere child’s play to her. “I’m not getting rid of you. I’m not going to spend less time with you. But, a doctor should remain impartial. Do you understand that?”

“Impartial doesn’t exist.” Callousness. Cruelty. Sadism. Those exist. In his experience,  _ impartial _ or  _ objectiv _ e are just words covering for such baser desires. “Why would it be  _ wrong  _ for my doctor to want the best for me.”

“Hah. good point.” she discards the dress in her hand with a twist of the hand, turns to twist and envelops him. “But, Doctor Isikhova wants the best for you too, and for her it might be  _ easier _ to see what the best is.” she whispers in his ear, rubbing herself against the side of his jaw, into hair less of a stubble, now more of a beard. He wonders if she likes the beard. She shows no signs of hating it. “Isikhova might be less distracted by your dashing good looks.” 

James gestures past her; a throw-away motion with his real hand over his drawn-up knees. “Whatever. It’s not like I’m sick. I don’t even really need a doctor any more.” He spreads the new arm, a gleaming hand against the skin, running up along her arm, shoulder and neck, stopping only right under her eye. 

The only reason he hadn’t objected to more checkups; hasn’t bothered pointing all this out before, was it was  _ her _ , giving him her time. “Let’s just proclaim me cured, and I’ll fetch you that chalice.”

She openly laughs at him. A short snort, before she starts shaking with mirth. “Fetch it? It’s not that simple. They didn’t even bring it out. That artifact that is supposed to cure Wanda? Is still deep within the Jabari temple, deep within their stronghold. It’s  _ not that simple _ .” 

A thought hits him. “Can’t I, like, fight M’Baku for it?” It’s a sudden thought. But James realises he rather likes the idea. Him with his new arm, against that Mountain of a man. It would be good to fight. James thinks he’d be okay, if it was a fight. And it would feel good. To move. And, James thinks, he might be invincible now. “ You guys do that, right? Settle disputes by battle?” 

She frowns at him. “It’s an ancient tradition only meant for royals and decorated warriors. Theoretically, you  _ could _ fit that, but even suggesting a coloniser fight their leader would be an insult to the Jabari.” a shake of the head. “Besides, if anyone would have the honor of battling over that it would be my brother. And even that.. Not happening. Relations are strained enough without us fighting like children over toys.”

His enthusiasm wanes, but still; running a metal finger down, to the side of her neck, finding her pulse, he wonders: “yet, trying to bribe him is obviously not working.” 

“..we are not..” Shuri sighs, runs her fingers up and down his sides, his skin tingling with her touch. “Look, M’ Baku isn’t even  _ opposed _ to borrowing the chalice, at least that’s thow ì read him. The problem for him is  _ how to sell it to his tribe _ .” 

She digs in deeper, against his chest, and James drops a knee, allowing her in, surrounding her as she crawls onto his lap, her soothing touch on his pecs. “The thing to understand about the mountain tribe is that they are a tight-knit bunch. Except a few small outcrops the entire tribe lives inside the stronghold walls. Their way of life, although ancient, is close to that of a modern democracy. They have a council and a voting to decide who leads. They talk, and argue and debate about whom among them is the strongest, bravest and most honest. And who they vote for, that is their leader. Although, between you and me, sometimes old men and women confuse rudeness for honesty, aggression for bravery and rigidity for strength.”

James hums, putting his chin on her head. This. This is nice. Her against him, like she’s inside of him. Part of him. Like a promise. An offering of safety. It feels a little weird; there’s nothing sexual about her touch, no pleasure sought. Just contact: grounding, assuring. “Does M’Baku think like that?”

“I sometimes wonder, but no. His elders though.. You see, with us Panthers once a king is chosen, we serve him until death. But the Gorilla’s.. If they find their leader lacking, weak, or incompetent. They will simply depose him.”

“Why would they find M’Baku weak?” it is a hard thing to imagine, for James, anyone more imposing than the Mountain King.

“They are already unhappy with M’Baku. The Jabari have had to aid us many times already in T’Challa’s short rule. They sheltered me and my brother. They fought a war for us.. In return, my brother has given them a seat on our council. And yet, such a seat has proven more work, and little else.” Her chin rubs against him, a sigh against his chest. “And now, this again. Asking for an artifact. One I still don’t see how it would even work.”

He can feel a twitch as she shakes her head, pulls away slowly. “I don’t even see how it  _ can _ hold magical powers. Perhaps there’s vibranium in the clay.. Well, I’d need to study it to understand it. But the dreaming elders swear by it.” Shuri rolls her eyes, looking up into his eyes. “Swear the chalice is all we need to wake Wanda up.”

Then, she looks down again. She puts a little space between them, like her consolation is over. A last finger trails his chest, exploring, her gaze far away. Then, she blinks, coming back. “Anyway, we should start by ordering breakfast. And, damn boy. What the hell? Didn’t you have more scars on your chest when I put your arm on?” 

James huffs a breath, wondering again if she even read his files. The work she has done was perfect. But, anything out of what she really needed seems to have been edited out. All the better, for him. He takes her chin and begs her eyes back up to his face. “Must be all that healing vibranium. Will you at least have breakfast with me?” And kisses her, deeper and longingly, because he doesn’t really mean food. And, yes. That’s a distraction. But also just a really good idea.

She grins. “I’d like that. And that reminds me, I have a gift for you.. I also made one for M’Baku but he still hasn’t accepted his and.. Well...” she backs up off the bed, out of his embrace and fumbles something from the ruins of her dress. Then finally holds a fine bracelet of beads in her hand, triomphant. “It’s actually reinforced. I figured you’d need that. Come, I’ll show you how to contact roomservice and you can order us both breakfast.” she holds up a finger, naughty grin. “I want you to choose your favorite.”

“You could have just integrated with the arm.” James grouses, as he accepts and flicks like he’s seen her do a hundred times. It activates, and James finds palace services on his start-up screen, hovering in front of him. He goes for magic number 4.

“Absolutely not, beads are too easily tracked with all those cookies.” She hangs over his shoulder, “No. wait? Not  _ my  _ favorite. I want  _ you _ to choose.” After a moment she shoves him playfully. “Preference, right? We still got to work on that. You have to start making your own choices. Choose what you want. It’ll be good practice for picking a new doctor.”

His annoyance shows, he knows it. As much as he tries to school his features. “We already picked Doctor Isikhova, Shuri. She’s perfect. I like her.”

Her expression drops. He has upset her. “I know I shouldn’t have suggested her first. GIve it a rest, Barnes.”

He knows he’s in trouble when she uses his last name. So, James supposes a piece offering is needed. Carefully, delicately he takes her hands in his. Her left, his right. Her right, his gem. Deliberately delicately, still feeling too much after several weeks. It’s still so much; sometimes too much. But he still does it; feels it. For her. “What difference does it make which I choose? There is so much to love about all of them. Squishy or crunchy, sugary sweet or salty or sharp or all at once. But what I love most is that you are here, sharing with me. With you, everything is amazing.”

She frowns for a moment, then laughs, a little forced. “Here we go again with the corn!” As he stares into her hazel eyes her expression softens; and she turns their hands, changing position so she is holding his. “I suppose not. You’re doing really well James. Sorry.”

But, she is sad, under that veneer. And, Shuri doesn’t mean it that way, but it still means not good enough. Not far enough; not fast enough. James can do better. They are back on his territory now, he knows. Carefully, he leans in. Brings his lips to hers and sucks in the lower one; sucks that pout right off. It gets him a smile and a real kiss, a smoky haze of lust coming over her eyes; one of her hands snaking up behind his neck.

He answers that touch, putting his hand over hers. His left;  _ her  _ hand. To show he appreciates the gift. Runs it lightly down her spine, down her nacked back, watching goosebumps break all over her skin, her nipples perking up. James smiles a real smile, closes his eyes and lets the sensations wash over him. Listens to the hand tell him about her bones and sinews and the heat pooling down at the center of her. Challenges that angry, nagging voice that tells him he is poison. He is  _ not _ . He is making Shuri feel good.

He is good. Useful. And he wants her. Forever. No; He wants to be  _ hers _ .. forever.

And, James swears. He wasn’t  _ planning _ on doing this before. But now.. Now. he reasons, if she’d just  _ promise _ . He needs her to promise.. But, Shuri would never agree. He can see that too. He’d have to. He’d have to cheat to get that kind of promise from her. Does a promise taken by cheating even count?

But, Shuri is kind and honest and perfect. Shuri has not denied him anything yet and Shuri has never lied. He thinks, if she would just.. If she would just promise him this, he would never have to leave her. Not until she is old and grey and dead besides. He just. He just has to make her  _ promise _ .

He beds her down carefully, encouraging her with little words and soft sound. Lets himself fall into smell, and taste and feelings deeper than he’s ever dared, with anyone. Hovering over her, he rejoices, because she is  _ good _ . And, be proxy, he is good as well. He whispers in her ear, as he touches her with that jewel of a hand, because he knows she wants to hear his voice. Tries to put into worlds all the silly little nothings. Listens to her moans, panting and wet. “Oh, Bast. I’m close.” 

Her eyes dilated, pupils too big even for the bright morning light. Breath too fast as she hitches, hips bucking up uncontrolled. And he knows it’s cheating; knows this is unfair. But he knows she would not even let him ask this, if she listened. He knows she wouldn’t even hear of it while she was thinking straight. But. but that is exactly  _ why  _ he needs this.

“Shuri.” He whispers in his ear, as her confused eyes try to focus on his, hardly even present. So close to what he thinks must only be her second orgasm. “Shuri. You are my friend. My  _ best _ friend,” Mohai doesn’t even compare, “ do you understand?”

“Hmm. yes, fuck. I think I.. I’m-hurry.”

“My one true friend. My best friend.”

“Okay..” she’s moving against him; nearly humping his hand. He flexes.

“Can I be yours?”

“What? My best friend?” she giggles.  _ No. _ No; that’s not what he means. “Can I be  _ yours? _ ”

“I.” She closes her eyes, shudders. Croons. “Oh, ooooh,  _ yes! _ ”

“Yes!” her breath hitches and she comes, hard and in waves, wetting his covers with a joyous yell of victory. 

But it’s his; his victory. It’s a stolen promise. But a promise is a promise. And Shuri never lies. James smiles. 

He’s  _ hers _ . 


	15. laison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fluffy times, top of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!  
> sorry for the late update. busy week at work. and I had this one almost done with some structural problems for a while before I figured the right order.  
> added warnings: slightly stalkerish vibes and a bad preminision maybe.

He’s on her bed, examining the play of sun on his metal fingers, when Shuri enters. He studies the grooves, the plates, the reflections. The way the black seems to eat the light, while he listens to her as she makes her way through the room in the early evening sun, her breath a little heavy from hurrying from her last meeting. The sounds of the princess hanging her jacket over a chair, the wisp of her brushing the sleeves, fill him with a content ease and calm. Only when she turns does he speak up, slowly turning his head her way as he leaves his shining black arm stretched towards the ceiling. “Did you put a tracker in here?”

“Bast’s Balls!” Shuri double-takes, apparently only now noticing him; frozen in her tracks towards her walk-in wardrobe. Finally she turns his way with a whisk of her long white dress and puts a hand to her fluttering heart, “how did you even get in?”

Oh. oh, right. Propriety. Uhm. No; what was the word? James frowns and stretches before he folds his new left together with his right, behind his head. Returns to studying the ceiling’s built-in lighting and bunching them up until his hands lock to his biceps to form a make-shift pillow. A soft glow from the entire surface above them, like sun-light filtering through tree-tops. What was that word…? ah yes. Privacy. James heaves a tired sigh. Perfect as his jewel of a left is, it is still too hard and unforgiving to make a good pillow. 

His real thumb ends up on the shoulder of the left, and he frowns a moment as he runs his nail over the empty, unmarked shoulder. Empty and bare, without his red star. That’s fine.  _ Good. _ He would not want to return to the Russians if he could. Even without how they failed him; even without how they broke his trust, Wakanda is a thousand times better than the old USSR; Shuri a million times better than Yakov. But still it feels empty. An empty, unclaimed arm. He tries to fight the urge, still his thumb from tracing nothing in questing circles. 

“Sorry,” James finally pulls himself up; sits and swings his feet to the floor, making a bit of a show about getting ready to leave. Laying on a bed without Shuri is pointless anyway. “I can get out, if you prefer.”

The princess slowly cocks her head in that kind, regal manner she has when she forgets to be sarcastic. Deflates, then smiles. Kind, tired. A little crooked. “Nah. nah. It’s okay. Just. How long have you been here, waiting? How did you even know I’d be back here?”

James grunts non-committedly. He’s been in her room, two minutes tops. On the bed, about three seconds. He would have waited in his own rooms, until she’d changed. But, when he got there, some asshole had changed his sheets; aired the place. He can’t really sit and stare in happy bliss at a bed where all evidence of their love has been scrubbed away, so James would rather spend every minute with her.

As for how he knew where she was going... “I’ve been reading my new manual, trying out the new hard-ware.” 

Mostly, by spying on, and following Shuri. But that part James thinks he might leave out. It was purely for wholesome reasons, of course. Like keeping her safe. Guarding her. James likes the idea of being her secret bodyguard. Sure, she might have a whole country to defend her; the Dora to look out for her. But, they do seem rather blind when it comes to threats already present. Like himself, or even M’Baku. So, one more pair of eyes can’t really hurt, can it? 

And, honestly, James needs the practice. His new limb has a whole host of intelligence options, like picking up sonar or mapping space with heat perception. All sorts of sensors, making him hum somewhere deep inside, or suddenly taste something almost like strawberries. It’s like the castle’s come alive in a new sense for him, camera’s singing, the toaster calling his name. The walls, the floors, ubiquitous computing around him. The Kimoyo bead bracelets on every man, woman and child.. Everything speaks to him, in a new strange language. 

But he’s been unable to pick up  _ anything _ from the arm itself. Which is weird; any other electrical appliance so loudly calling out to him now he knows where to listen for. “So, I guess no tracker?”

“Course not,” Shuri half-frown, half grin suggests she finds the idea.. wrong. “Your arm is completely off the radar, literally and figuratively. It doesn’t emit  _ any  _ signals, and you can actually walk through a metal detector with that, and no one will even know. Except for the color and texture, but I’m sure we can fix that too. If anyone gets any read-out from you it’ll be from your  _ biological parts. _ ” She looks damn smug about that, then adds as an afterthought. “But it’s got a distress beacon you can activate if you need to be found.”

James stands, raising his vibranium arm her way imploringly, confused. “But, I’d  _ always _ want you to find me,” he pouts. James supposes him broadcasting would be bad in stealth missions. But with her brain he’d think she’d have no problem mapping him in a way that assures only  _ she _ could ever find him. Perhaps this is another privacy issue? What a waste of time. And he may think Shuri knows best, Shuri is always right.. but on this, on this he will needle. “I’m  _ yours  _ remember? Your..  _ best _ friend?”

“Uhm. lol, yeah?” she huffs, fake laugh and all, one arm making half a gesture with a fine-boned hand.. “You have such a  _ weird  _ way of saying that. You know. Can’t we just say BFF’s?“

“Yes.” oh, James  _ likes _ that. “Yours forever, right?” But, from the way one eyebrow arches up she does not like that. He is making her uncomfortable; a sad fact. James just wants to be hers.. But he guesses it’s too early still. So, he settles for baby steps. Saunters over close easily “I don’t like it; not having a tracker. What if I have an accident? What if someone abducts me? What if I..” what if he wakes up as someone else; “..don’t  _ remember _ I want to be found?”

She’s chewing on her lip now, a worried frown gracing her forehead. 

He pushes on, “what if I forget you, Shuri?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” she tries, “I am completely unforgettable.”

“That you are.” And god he loves her. Not just because of who she is, but what she represented. How Hydra must  _ hate _ her. A princess, just shy of twenty, leading a people Nazis didn’t even consider human. And so smart, so beautiful, so perfect. Just her existence alone should be enough to botch Hydra’s careful programming. And yet, and  _ yet. _ James steps to her side, leaning down over her to whisper in her ear. “..I have a bad track record, when it comes to  _ remembering _ .”

She sets her jaw, crosses her arms. It takes a moment; a long one of him staring back at her, allowing himself open and honest and acknowledging his greatest fear. James is starting to suspect Shuri skimmed on the gory details of his files. Only focussed on what she needed and discarded the rest. And that’s fine. But she knows.. she  _ must _ know of the chair. 

Finally, her royal highness concedes, or close enough. Huffs a breath and shakes her head with a rueful smile. She looks him in the eye from askense, allowing him a coveted look at her profile. “We’ll work something out. Maybe a daily check-in where the location is broadcasted if you do not respond? Would that make you feel better?” 

James steps closer and behind her, a soft grin on his face. Puts his arms around and his mouth to her neck and whispers, high on his victory. “So much better.  _ ‘If found, please return to owner.’ _ ”

“Cut that out,” She bites; and James knows he’s gone too far.; can tell from the change of tone. Her stiffening posture, the sudden cold in the room. Perhaps he’s blown his chance with her, for the moment. A botched opportunity to cement their budding relation with another round of mind-blowing sex. Yet, with her he hardly cares. Doesn’t worry and just plays at innocence. He bends down to her ear, rake his front teeth over the lobe, “what, this?”

“No, your nonsense.” she sighs, pushes him away, a hand to his chest. “Maybe you’re getting a little  _ too _ crazy about me. There’s actually a world out there no-me, you know?”

And that’s a lot of bullshit. And, impossible besides. He grins, even as he lets her push him. “Seen it, done that. You’re  _ better. _ ” 

Hell, she’s the only thing with a damn at all. All he wants is to stay with her. James has already seen the world, and found it lacking. On missions for nearly seventy years, and another two on the run. Looking over his shoulder every step. Ending up in the drags on the bottom of the barrel everywhere; in every city, every single one different yet the same. The entire planet is little more than a cesspool of the same, indifferent poisonous jungle of elbowing and stepping on those beneath you. It’s only redeeming feature is that it somehow, against all odds, managed to produce..

_ her... _

With a shake of the head, she reaches for his wrist. Turns in his arms, and demands eye contact with her stare. “Other people care about you too, you know. Have you even checked your messages yet? There’s like twenty by Captain America, or Nomad as he’s calling himself now.” a shake of her head, a wry turn of her lips. “They are bound to be  _ hilarious. _ He and his Rogue Avengers are stuck somewhere in central Africa, fighting locusts.”

“Locusts?” James doesn’t give a fuck, except for the radiant smile it puts on her face. He’ll watch them all with her, if that’s what she wants.

“Little hint, the Locusts are winning.” she grins at him wickedly. “The whole publicity fighting for good is pretty complicated it turns out. Rooting out a dictator or warlord can actually be pretty controversial, and only creates a power-vacuum. This was the one cause everyone could get behind and no-one could take offense off.” a pensive frown, gone again a moment later. “Except the locusts. But, really,  _ nobody _ likes locusts.”

James gives her a frown of his own, Returns to the bed and taps the covers next to him.  _ Come sit with me and watch. _

“Are you sure? I think Steve meant those messages for you.”

James snorts. “If he doesn’t think I’ll share them he _ really _ doesn’t know me at all.”

And she looks at him, considers; and decides. Chooses, as she does every time, for him. “Oh, well. Maybe a few minutes, but I have to get back; negotiations are far from done. This might well be an all nighter.”

She settles in, fitting into his side like a child yet putting a protective arm around him like a mother. In this she reminds him sometimes of his Pestúnka. Though, Shuri is so much better. Young, radiant and beautiful in every way, while the old Nurse was a narrow-minded old witch. 

Well, James had already made peace with the fact that his chances of Shuri agreeing to sex now are nil. But this.. This is  _ also _ nice. Weird and pointless, but comforting. Good. James plays his messages and studies her profile though his lashes as she laughs at a quip or an anecdote from Steve. James still cannot believe his luck; so lucky to be with her. But, now that he’d given the chance, he’ll make damn sure never to leave her side. Not until she’s old and dead. And James means to make damned sure she lives to be a hundred.

Hydra will have to drag him away from her shriveled old corpse when it’s time. And he’ll go kicking and screaming. And by that time, seventy years or a hundred years from now, he’ll be damned sure to have her mark on his arm. Have her put her mark on the entire world. Oh, how grand would that be? Make Shuri queen of the world. 

He could do it, if she’d lay out the plan. A little provocation there, a bit of posturing there. He’s made men Kings that were not half the measure of her with less. Turned nobodies into president, with a few words and a single bullet. And he’d put the world at her feet if she’d let him. Make her queen Empress of it all. and the world would be  _ lucky _ to have her. 

But, of course, Shuri would not  _ want _ it. Because Shuri is  _ good _ . 

A shame really. If ever James could ever believe in the fairytale of him making a better world, it would be on her call. Yet he realises by now, Shuri will never ask for anything from him. Nor will her brother ever come to collect. It’s hard, when all he can do to repay them is be  _ well. _ But, James means to try. 


	16. midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's hard being good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heey guys! I'm so excited. we going for a ride. I hope you all like a thrill ride..  
> added warning: references to brain-damage and abuse. fantasies of violence.

James sighs, arms crossed over the railing, chin-hair rubbing against his real arm, more beard than stubble by now scratching into his flesh arm, the vibranium one beneath pressed flush against the heavy marble railing. Through the hand he can half-hear Shuri’s stunted conversation with her brother, two floors up and on the other side of the courtyard. Brother and sister exhausted, but getting ready for another round. 

But M’Baku and his old witch have stepped out for now, and their tired strategizing is a lot less interesting than the curtain of his hair, waving in his face. Tickling his cheekbones at the ends and pulling at the roots on his scalp in the dark, swaying softly in the night’s wind. Shuri brushed it for him, putting in some oily cream that he does not know the name for, even if it made her late for her meeting. It smells divine. Reminds him of her, and James feels relaxed, loose content. 

A slow yawn surprises him; because he doesn’t think he should be tired by now. Shuri, yes. Shuri would be exhausted by now. But, brilliant as she is, she is  _ human. _ James can go weeks without an hour of sleep. And it has hardly been that long. Still his eyelids flutter near closed. Perhaps, he is a little bored? Or perhaps it’s because of the rustling of the leaves, from the garden below. It’s a calming sound. Slow and near-rhythmic. Perhaps, he should return to his quarters? He doubts Shuri is done for the night; from what he’s heard, this is but a recess. And James does not like the thought of leaving his princess alone, when M’Baku returns. Yet, if he’s realistic there’s very little chance of the man trying anything underhanded. Not here. Not with the Black Panther in the room with him. 

Although he sometimes worries about the king. T’Challa makes little sense to James, all friendly smiles and soft words. Even in these talks all he does is reason and bargain. Not even once losing temper. Which would be a great strategy, if those around him knew this but a guise; if they expected a knife in the back any day. 

But, of course, in Wakanda, that will not be happening. That would be dishonest; dishonorable. Then again, even if M’Baku doesn’t fear T’Challa, he does seem to respect him. And even if the king is not as perfect and smart as Shuri, her brother must be the next best thing. Perhaps. Perhaps James could just retire; crawl into that giant bed all alone and actually...

Instincts prime, and James coils up, body folding down against the railing sideways, cheek pressed to stone so his silhouette falls away into the shape of the balcony. Best vantage, minimum chance of discovery. He knows that low voice. And the other voice as well. The old crone advisor. A witch that had sat close to M’Baku at the dinner; that was present at the meeting just now, her voice short interruptions to T’Challa’s long-winded pleas.

The old, wrinkled, woman steps into view first. A shriveled up shadow inside her furs reflecting the few specks of light on this moonless night. Her tone is sour, hard. A wise-woman schooling her charge; the larger-than-life visage of the Mountain King reduced to the role of schoolboy. And safe from his vantage point above, James nearly smirks at the image. Until he realises what they are discussing. “Colonizer..”

The last of his soft content flows out, replaced by angry knots as his eyes follow the two shadows unblinkingly. His line of vision is impaired by more dark shapes; bushes and overhanging branches, the crunch of pebbles underfoot is loud in his ears. Obstructions, and the old crone’s hissed words are only a whisper in comparison. Still, James’s training allows him to pick out every word of her thick Jabari dialect. “You cannot let the Panther talk you into moving the Chalice. It was placed in our hands four-hundred-and-fifty years ago, our ancestors promised to keep it safe in the temple. It has not been moved once since. If a dreamer needs the chalice to awaken them, they are brought to it, not the other way around.”

“I know..” M'Baku’s strong baritone is more easily overheard. “But, now you make it sound like you want me to take the girl into  _ our Jabari mountain _ .”

“Absolutely  _ not _ .” outrage in her tone, step interrupted and posture straightening to turn up to the Mountain in shock. “The girl is more dangerous than their White Wolf. Once she awakens… besides. Taking a Coloniser into Gray-Back’s holy mountain is _ sacrilege _ !” 

“I  _ know _ ..” M’Baku repeats, sighs, continues, softer still. “But, my honored Counselor, you have seen..” his next words are lost in a gust of wind as they continue to move away, around the corner. James nearly abandons his perch; pushes his metal palm against the railing, looking for any conduction of the sound. There is none; the ground too far and too isolated from his marble walls. All he catches is he is his own name.

The Crone’s indignation answer is loud enough, though; loud and indignant. “The Sick Dog is the one that bites, boy!”

And this time, James does break his concealment. One foot up on the marble, crouched balanced on the railing with his face in an angry snarl. How  _ dare _ she! He can jump down, dispatch her and her oversized pawn-of-a-king without  _ either _ of them any the wiser. Without  _ anyone _ finding their desecrated corpses before morning. He could... He could. He wouldn’t. He doesn’t..

Still, under his vibranium hand the marble ballisade groans. It is only now that he registers that he teeters on the edge; crouched up with one leg on the railing. Muscles in his hamstrings taught and ready to spring. The only thing holding him back from jumping down and falling into the shadow and becoming one with them; one with them again. Is  _ her _ . The thought of her...

What the fuck are they saying about him? James doesn’t need to kill them. He can follow. He just needs to know. Won’t let these.. Do they think they are better than him? What, do they think he’s stupid? A simpleton half-wit with a fried out brain? Will they be talking over his head next? Leave him standing with a vacant expression on his face and discuss his fate in front of him? It’s none of their _ fucking business.  _

Although. That. He doesn’t do  _ that _ anymore either. No more anger. He’s too easily manipulated when he’s angry. He shouldn’ t think like that anymore. Or is that just killing? A little reconnaissance never hurt anybody. He could follow, hear what else they have to say about him behind his fucking back, Maybe pick their pockeets, to be a fuck. Steal the witch’s booze and the king’s fucking giant club. That’d s _ how _ them. 

The debate only lasts only a millisecond, before he realises he has been distracted. Whole being honed in on the pair, and forgetting; filtering out everything else. A rookie mistake. An emotionally incited loss of control. Bucky, fucing him over. Getting his head hot. Ruining everything.

With a sigh, James drops back down, and turns around. Tries to tip-toe up and put his ass down on the railing. It is too high to do him any good; James ends up leaning against the balcony instead of sitting; point-of view too high. Mohai is not a petite woman, but neither is she particularly large. James still towers over her, and it just brings home that she doesn’t have the kind of commanding presence Shuri or Queen Ramonda or even Okoye have.. Still, James makes due, harnessing a disarming smile. “Hello Mohai.”

It is, apparently, not good enough. “Don’t try that shit on me again.” She steps through the balcony glass doors, out into the open air. Stops and plants her feet wide, and crosses her arm. The spear, an ever present reminder of her standing, falling into the crook of her elbow with practiced ease. She is in full Dora gear, probably on duty or just off. She looks tired. Angry.

She looks hurt. 

A moment passes, before the Dora visibly swallows, then offers in a measured tone: “I suppose congratulations are in order.” 

James doesn’t flinch; leaves the smile as it is, though it might tighten just a hair. He can guess; oh yes. Regardless of what anyone thinks, he is not an idiot. Jealousy doesn’t suit Mohai, yet it enveloppes her. Turns the smell of her sour on his tongue. Still, stupidity appears to him the safest option. His tone is all honest confusion. “Thank you..?”

A snap, spear-bud on the ground, and she lurches forward. Stops herself, but barely. The effort of reigning herself in has her panting, grinding her teeth. Mohai’s body language is screaming fight, and James fights the urge to fret. Puts both his palms on the marble behind him. It is important, this is important. Whatever else, she is still a friend. Even if he feels she is being a lousy friend right now.

Mohai leans in one shoulder; adds a prodding, angry finger his way; out of reach, yet out to stab out his eyes. Her other hand takes up the spear again. “Oh, please. How  _ stupid _ do you think I am,” she spits, “I can hear the grape-vine too, you know.” A stamp of the bud of the spear to the ground to accentuate her point. “You and  _ Shuri _ .” Another stamp, teeth bared, chin prodding out. “Well, the others did warn me not to fraternize with a Coloniser. But, I guess I thought you’d be different. Still, I never thought you’d be a  _ coward. _ ”

James doesn’t like that. Doesn’t like that at all. But a friend is a friend, and he knows better than to get into a fight with a friend. So, he licks his lips, and tries to scoot back. Give her space. He supposes he isn’t surprised; he expected her to be unhappy. He knew he couldn’t keep evading her. But, James’s own temper is flayed raw enough right now. Bucky is still that heat in the pit of his stomach, leaving his body feeling like it should be shaking. Though the Winter Soldier’s fingers never shake. He tries to retort, find the right words to calm her down. 

Mohai shuts him down, another step closer, one foot stamping, the spear spinning, once, before it taps down on her other side.“You could have _ at least _ told me straight,” tap, like a thin, tall soldier, in her line. At her command. Ready for battle. “Instead of leading me on and hiding and making me out the fool.” 

James finally finds his voice. “I never lied to you..”

“-No,” another step. The spear spins. She’s only a good stride from him now. Just out of reach for a punch, but she has the extra reach. She has a weapon. A spear is one of the most practical weapons in hand to hand. It cuts, it has the reach of a bo. It strikes. 

Mohai’s voice cuts through a soldier monologuing take-downs against a spear. “You’re right. You didn’t  _ lie _ .” Stamp, foot. Stamp, spear. “You just  _ insinuated _ and suggested and  _ manipulated. _ ” clack, her teeth grind. The spear falls to a hand again, quick with half a spin as she spreads her arms in exasperation. It passes, again, a little too close to his face. “Tell me, does Shuri know? Or is she going to find out you  _ fuck around _ the same way _ I _ did?”

James tries to hunch down, really he does. Though his spine feels like a strung bow. So, he tries to deny it instead. “Don’t,” He stutters; Mohai is just being contrite now. Deliberately hurting him. Why is she so clingy anyway? “Don’t bring the Princess into this.”

“I can’t  _ believe..” _ she laughs, mirthlessly. Too close. Tap. Spin. “I can’t believe I fell for this. I can’t believe..” Spin. Bud. Point. Stamp. Words. But he stops hearing her, too absorbed in the end of the spear. Stamp. Stamp. Spin. Bud. point. 

Time slows, and James  _ loses. _ Half a foot too close to his eyes, and the spin she enacted is interrupted by his sliding step; his shoulder that bumps to hers and breaks her stance. His new arm goes to the threat first: blocks, taking the brunt of the swing. Vibranium on vibranium, chiming hard; loudly. Shrilly. It hits deep, sets off something more than his ears, ringing.

it’s that chime that saves Mohai’s life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> genni caught my attention to the fact that hearing it from the grapevine might not be as known as an expression as it once was. it's from a song by Marvin Gaye. You're missing something if you don't know it so: [ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hajBdDM2qdg ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hajBdDM2qdg)


	17. light exercise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay, so this is not what it looks like..

They both stand, frozen; caught, in the act. Their impromptu audience witness to a tableau of violence caught unmoving like marble. Telling their tale with their flesh-and blood bodies like statues. One James would very much like to hide; disappear. Ghost away, 

Yet he is unable to break his pose, frozen in the sudden light. James’s hand; the flesh one, still stretched out, palm open and arm throat out in an obvious attack, heavy shadows throwing him into relief against the ballisade. Mohai, a little off to his side. Her throat, barely an inch from his outstretched fingers. A slow trickle of blood flows from the side of her neck, where James’s fingers had still nicked her. His aim, uncharacteristically off, disrupted by the chiming feedback still ringing in his ears. Bucky’s fingers, opening the first inch of Mohai’s throat like a zipper, so easily exposing the insides. A few inches to the right, and he would have exposed her traega. Opened her jugular artery and turned it into a red, spurting fountain of blood.. 

“James..!” The Queen, herself, flanked by a Dora entourage. Dark shadows illuminated from inside, standing just inside from the glass doors. Her tone knocks the spear away from James, his vibranium hand slackened by the Queen’s voice of authority. Indignant, high-pitched; Yet broken. Disappointed. The tall spear-shaft hits the floor, clanging to the ground in a drum-ruffle that echoes the shocks down his arm yet a moment ago. Mohai chokes once, releasing James from his unwilling silent confession. Finally able to move, he turns his head to watch, horrified, as she backs up, coughing. Hands to her throat, catching the trickle of blood and smearing it to something even more obtrusive.

James turns, slowly. Queen Ramonda steps forward, wavers on the threshold, straight backed, hands clapped together. Her shocked expression can only be outdone by the woman coming up besides her: General Okoye, a grimace of distaste. But, worse, the underlying emotion: a wry twist of the lips, a complete lack of surprise. Her expression says ‘ _ I knew it’ _ , like a verdict: judged and jouried. Guilty as charged. 

“I didn’t.” James croaks out, finally. Finding a strength he didn’t know he possessed to move back. Back to his railing. The one he should never have left. He grabs it, like a life-line.

“You..” Mohai is suddenly the undivided attention of their gathering, every head turning her way. Her shock-addled voice provides the unneeded summary of what all had already seen. “He,” she catches, turns her cloudy eyes to fix on James, gaze sharpening in accusation: “you almost  _ killed _ me.”

His voice is gone, the marble under his metal hand is somehow unsteady. Like little tremors of an earthquake. James snatches it loose from the marble, fingers screeching where they fail to release right. He runs the metal hand through his hair, clumsily pulling roots from his scalp. Yet, it gives him enough of an anchor to repeat, “I  _ didn’t. _ ”

He didn’t kill her. Mohai is _ fine _ . She is okay. Unharmed, mostly. A deep breath; a moment for James to will the fact -the  _ important _ fact out there. “You are fine..” Though James’s beard is suffocating his burning face. Though they all stare and it’s physically painful; makes him feel like an ant caught under a magnifying glass, their gazes like the sun, burning him into oblivion. James thought he was beyond shame, yet it turns out he was wrong. “You are fine.” he repeats, nearly defeated by the effort.

Ramonda gathers herself first; straightens, another half-inch. Then, visibly forces herself to relax; attempts a regal smile. “Fortunately, no irreparable damage,” she nearly stalls, only James’s training picking up the stutter. Witness to her awareness of how close they had gotten to something far worse. “Okoye, please escort our warrior to the medics. I will care for.. James.”

Again, had James been anyone else, he would have missed the silent exchange between the pair: Okoye’s moment of hesitance before she reaches out and takes Mohai by the arm almost carefully. The quick glance of surprise by the queen, then another thin smile. “Or, perhaps you could wait one minute, James. I’ll be with you shortly.” 

The Queen steps back into the room beyond. Okoye leads a stunned Mohai, following her inside. A pair of Dora guards however move out onto the balcony and close the glass doors, taking up position on either side of the doors, guarding him. Faces as blank as they can manage, but failing to hide their own confusion; accusation; disappointment. Their goodwill threadbare after James’s little outburst. Tantrum? Mistake.. It bothers James, because he worked hard for them to trust him. 

Still, they are of little consequence. The queen; the mother, however. Her opinion  _ matters.  _ James focusses his gaze, behind ornate glass and valance, he can still see Ramonda’s lips move, but a moment. _ ‘Say your piece quickly,...’ _ before she turns away, and all James can see is her back. 

It is.. This is  _ bad _ . How much trouble had he gotten in? James hadn’t meant to. But, Mohai isn’t  _ wrong. _ He had almost killed her. Lost control and it’s all  _ Bucky _ of course. James would never.. Bucky is the one stuck in an ever-lasting war. Caught in the lie that he can fix things. Fight injustice, by committing  _ murder. _ James knows better.  _ Shuri _ taught him better. Yet, if his arm had not overcome his senses. If it had not shocked him with the avalanche of input the impact had buried him in… he would have. He would have finished.

Also, James fucking  _ missed. _ A killing move; an easy one. Thrown off by a kickback in his system. A resonating sound that hit deep within him. Not really hurting. Not even true pain. Yet, it had disrupted his act. Had broken a move deep-ingrained that had never missed its mark yet. Had never failed. James doesn’t know how to feel about this. He is glad. Glad Mohai is okay. Both glad he didn’t kill her, because he does like her. And glad he didn’t kill it, for the amount of trouble he is in now should pail in comparison with if he had.. Finished. Yet. yet,

The Winter Soldier never missed. That was the point of him; the core of his worth. Never missed. Never failed. What if this arm.., this perfect, new arm, had somehow  _ ruined _ him? Broken him beyond repair, putting in feelings and obstacles where there should have been only a cool, clear objective.

No, no that was wrong. The Winter Soldier had started failing long before the arm. James reminded himself of insight, of Fury, or Steve, one more time. Shuri had  _ fixed _ him. Made him better, repaired what was broken. And perhaps he was different now, had new skills and maybe that meant losing old ones. But, wasn’t that the same every time he was reborn? He just probably needed time. Time to adjust. To get used to this new him. 

If he still got that time. If they weren’t deciding to.. 

What were they talking about? Whatever Okoye has to say, it could not be good. Despite her few attempts to overcome the chasm between them, James knows the General does not care for him. Does not trust him. And now, she’s whispering in the queen’s ear. There’s altogether too much talking about him behind his back, and James is tired of it. Are they deciding to get rid of him? Throw him out without even giving him a chance to explain. Take him from Shuri? James will  _ not _ let them take him. Will not surrender this without a fight. Without a chance to explain his side.

Though. There’s precious little to tell. James isn’t even sure why he moved as he did; why he felt threatened. It was just a spear. How much damage could Mohai even have done to him with that? He’s had worse. Sat through worse; ignored it or even reported on it in real-time, unmoving and without even raising his voice. Pain is irrelevant. Inconsequential and unimportant. James doesn’t fear pain. He fears other, worse things..

What are they deciding? Bloody Wakandan soundproofing is apparently even done on these windows. But, the floor is  _ marble _ . Most of the Ballisade, as well. And they connect. And, the arm.. James smiles unassumingly to his entourage. He leans back and presses both palms against the cool stone behind him; listens through his left…

The Queen’s measured tone comes to him loud and clear. “The farm idea is off the table Okoye. Apparently Shuri’s new billionaire science-friend made a joke about the Wolf with seven Goats... Well, it’s apparently funny and a ridiculous idea now.”

A soft shuffle, and James reads the inside of the room, realises there are only two women left inside. Mohai is somewhere in the hallway beyond, stumbling her way to the doctors on the arm of another Dora guard. Okoye speaks, almost softly. “Regardless how or why, Ramonda, idle Spears in distracted hands cause accidents. And our young princess has many  _ distractions  _ right now. Much as she has done him good, much as I can  _ see _ our White Wolf is calm and happy at her side, if this is what happens the minute they are seperated _. _ ” 

Queen Ramonda risks. “A Dora Milaje should have known better. Flipping her spear around like that. She is a trained warrior, not some innocent brat.”

“The same goes for the other party, my Queen.” Okoye, sounding nearly kind. “Do not treat him like a child. This dependency on Shuri, stuck to her side like a shadow. This is not growth. I agree that it was fine, at first. But by now it is plain regression. And our girl so smitten I doubt she’s even aware.” 

There is a beat of silence. Too long, and James already knows what is coming before the queen sighs, “I agree,” damning him, “but I am sure Shuri knows what she is doing. Perhaps...”

James pulls back his palm, disgusted. Is he such a burden? Shurely Shuri will not agree. A distraction and in the way? No. He is  _ hers. _ She promised. She won’t give him up. He is useful. Shuri needs him.

Then again. He already messed up the mission with M’Baku, and he hasn’t found a way to make himself useful beyond.. except taking up Shuri’s time. If the queen. If Shuri’s mother starts leaning on her. Is he really safe?

Still, they are  _ wrong _ . James has  _ plenty _ of independent thoughts. Just because Shuri hasn’t been willing to take up his ideas. Well, they are still  _ good _ ideas. When it comes to politics and maneuvering James has decades of experience. And, yes, James supposes that when he says  _ good ideas _ , he doesn’t mean  _ good _ in an ethical sense. Good in a  _ working _ sense. Practical, useful ideas. Shuri just thinks herself too perfect to endorse them. Still, James is sure that at some point, one as brilliant as Shuri will no doubt realise the folly of her ways. The need for her to get her hands dirty. It is inevitable. Though, honestly, James would wish for a way that she would not. That she could stay clean. And for everything to work out regardless...

James blinks, a slow smile spreading on his face. A little predatorial, a little too wide, if the frowns his Dora guards give him are any indication. But, the epiphany is.. Well, if Shuri doesn’t  _ want _ to give him missions. If he needs to figure out his own ways.. if they want independent thought demonstrated.. Well, perhaps it is time James made a mission of his own again.

It will be easy. So easy that it will require nearly no effort at all. All he has to do is... 

James turns his head sharply, staring at something to the side; a pull and que that works without fail, the two Dora turning instinctively at the small, unimportant sound James’s move had drawn their attention to. It is but a bird, unimportant. But it distracts the Dora guard for half a second, sharp gazes drawn away. It is enough; a hole in the mesh. James pushes back, lets his shoulders fall till his back carries his weight; up and over the ballisade. Heels up, James upends and the Winter Soldier falls through the mesh. 

How’s  _ that  _ for growth, Okoye?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so I got excited and posted this already. because it seemed done. ooh im so excited!
> 
> On the stike James used, it's called a nukite. you make a spear-point of your fingers, to strike at a sensative area like the throat. He used his right hand, but that is strong enough against a sensative area, and It's meant to crush the wind-pipe, not so muh cut. but, he missed. fingernails caused the blood. I hope that clears it up.


	18. cup a water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> james is pretty fast, now.

He stays in the shadows, pressed between a wall and a bush as the Dora guards above him exchange confused words. A moment later one of the pair abandons her post, running inside to sound the alarm. With one left, her panicked breaths telling him which way she is facing, running the three steps to the closest garden wall when her back is turned is easy. 

The fault over the wall is a little less perfect; he pushes off into the air like a high-jump athlete, turning his back and going over head and shoulder first, nicking the top. Good so far; a minimum break in the silhouettes. When cleared he tucks in, faults over to get his feet under him. But the far side is lower by a good few feet and he overreaches in the dark, landing hard on gnarled bush roots. James is lucky he is wearing his boots today, saving him from twisting an ankle before he’s even on his way.

Counting the few scratches on his arm already nearly-gone as blessings, James pauses, evaluates for one moment. His pants are a dark umber that should provide the perfect camouflage. The shirt, however, is almost white. And though the arm is perfect black, it reflects too much, and the seams glow golden in the dark. Luckily the ground beneath him is still moist and loose. James takes off the shirt and uses it as a rag to dull the vibranium arm, darken the other. Finally he rubs his face for good measure and puts the dirtied item back on.

Then, he listens, for a moment, to the sounds of panic on the other side of the wall, people already moving around, looking for him. He takes stock of their positions; the chance anyone is looking his way right now, judges it nil, and sets off into the forest at a loping giant. 

Two steps into the jungle shrubbery James lets out a shocked breath, and speeds up. Two steps more; all the time he needs to get his bearings and remember the way towards the Jabari mountain; something he’d only known in passing: info caught on his retina when stepping through a room with the map of Wakanda on a wall. Another thumble, and he starts hitting a decent stride. Then, shocked, James speeds up a third time. He.. He’d...

He’d  _ forgotten _ .

Forgotten what it’s like to  _ run _ .

Well, who can blame him? The last time he went all out T’Challa -the Black Panther-, had been hot on his trail. When he’d been framed for the bombing that had taken the previous king’s; T'Chaka life; when he had been flushed out of hiding by the combined efforts of the Accords. Back when he’d still had the old, metal arm; iron and steel except that one, stolen piece. The vibranium join-socket he still had connected to his spine. An arm that had kept the Soviet’s stamp, but was all  _ Hydra’s _ : their sick little joke. When subterfuge and the lie that Hydra was gone had made it impossible for them to claim him. Running with  _ that _ arm had  _ not _ been the same.

Running with the  _ old  _ arm had been hard, ungainly work. Like getting nailed to a draft car, but only on one side. The weight of it followed, but always two steps behind; always took a monumental effort to displace at all. The result had been something ungracious, despite the Widow Mother’s best efforts. Never balanced; pulling at clamps nails and staples with every pounding, jarring step. As a result the Winter Soldier never ran; not if given  _ any  _ other option. 

Even later, when James had lost that old arm, freed from it by Stark’s repulsors -had James even thanked him for that? Well, regardless, James hadn’t really had much of a chance run. Not beyond scaling a fence or making a sprint across an airport runway. At the time, the loss of weight had still been more of a hindrance more than a help, throwing off his weight in a whole, new, bothersome way.

Perhaps that is why James had never understood Steve’s obsession with running. Getting up before dawn just to torture himself and put himself through steps he hardly needed to stay in shape. Not if Steve was anything like him; and  _ James _ was supposed to be the knock-off. No, if anything James suspected Steve would not be able to lose muscle if he tried. And with Steve the bigger, heavier supersoldier, his running regime had to be an exercise in self-flaggeration if James had ever seen one. 

But this. This, this was something else.

James could  _ fly _ .

Up the mountain, in bouncing strides. Steep slopes or stone steps, it made no difference: his steps stayed light, making progress in leaps and bounds. It ‘d take M’ Baku and his entourage most of the day to return to their strong-hold in the mountain. James would take little over an hour, at this pace. It changed everything. What was a mediocre idea with a lot of barbs and problems suddenly perfectly attainable. He’s the fucking wind.

Though he's pushing it; exchanging speed for stealth. James even spooks a mouse-deer, before he manages to reign himself in. Before he manages to start moving with care; stay off the track and keep quiet. The weird, almost overpowering urge to laugh stays with him till the first guard-post.

The vibranium arm doesn’t sense any electronic surveillance yet, and with their aversion to technology James supposed their might not be any up ahead either. But the lookout post is manned by a single, tired warrior. His senses can pick out the man easily, hidden up high beyond sight. James eyes the tree-house like construction, from which he doubts the Jabari can see anything below on such a moonless night.

Still, he stays out of sight, listens to the sounds inside. When he’s right under the tower James considers. The smart, safe way is dispatch or the man. Scale the tall, wooden shafts and silence the man forever. As long as all that he meets are equally removed their will be no surprises for James. No one sneaking up on him from behind or sounding the alarm.

Yet, the decision against that was already made the day he crawled away from the Potomac shore. Things started to go wrong for him when murder was presented as the only, best, and viable option. Besides, here to  _ fix _ things, not create an even bigger rift. And, beyond all these reasonable considerations is of course the most important fact: Shuri would object so, so much. No; James already knows he has to get Shuri in on this. It would never work, if he fails to keep this one hundred percent clean.

It’s not a problem. If James leaves the man be, that might even provide him with half a challenge. Might make this interesting. So, he steps on, leaving the guard none the wiser, and heads off to the next guard point.

When he’s scaling the walls of the strong-hold James has to admit that getting much of a challenge here is just hopeful thinking. There are guards, but it’s little more than a skeleton crew. And with what little lighting there is is made from torches set along the walls, James would have had the advantage here even if the real warriors would not all be down in the capital, accompanying their chief.

Now, with these few old women and young boys for guards, it’s not even interesting. James can see in this semi-dark. Can rely on his ears the few times his eyes fail to read the shadows at the lips of tunnel-ways. The arm, his new gem, kept in contact with the walls provides even more data: footsteps as tremors, heat charts and more he cannot quite visually picture yet. But he’s close; so close and it’s fun. Near a game, sneaking around soundlessly, cutting it closer and closer at every chance. And, even in the dark, he enjoys the sights. Jabari is beautiful. 

Not in the way Birnin Zana is beautiful. There are no tall buildings, there is no technology woven into the walls. It is a place of nature and ancient culture. But, it is still beautiful. Houses and temples build into the walls of the mountain itself, cut away into stone. Materials from nature itself: pelts, rope and wood; leaves and dirt. Yet, fine reliefs in stone and small statues cut into the wood brighten the mountain city and bring it to life: intricate works that show the amount of care and love and time gone into every inch of this place. 

If every inch, every piece within the stronghold is worked and polished and cared for, the temple itself puts the rest of the mountain to shame. It makes James sad to see it. Though there’s little point in trying not to see, not to notice. He’ll remember everything just by passing through; always does until it is wiped away. If; no,  _ when _ Hydra takes him back, he hopes they don’t bother to question him before… before..

James is pretty sure Wakanda won’t be turned into a Nazi state. Africa usually gets the other play. An assasination here, a civil war there, and soon there is no one of importance to stand in Hydra’s way. Just a few people stuck in the mud, with no memory of anything that had come before. He should know; he’s caused such a downfall more than once. 

Well, nothing to be done about that. Right now, James needs the chalice. Which turns out to be a little more difficult than he’d realised. Making his way through the near abandoned temple, stepping around the one young woman caring for the place, cleaning and relighting incense and candles, James has to acquit one point _ : he doesn’t have a clue what he’s looking for. _ And damn, there’s a lot of holy artifacts in all their little alcoves. Finally admitting defeat and pressed for time, James hides himself in the shadows, waits for the girl-monk or whatever she is to pass again, and grabs her from behind.

It’s half a moment longer than expected, his real fingers stalling over her mouth confused, waiting for the first wail. Then, finally, her obvious confusion; disbelief is lifted, and she  _ screams. _ James has already cut her off, muffles the sound with his palm, nearly completely silencing her. He relaxes his fingers slightly when she draws a new breath through her nose, wondering if she has seen reason. He is ready, expecting another tirade of sound to smother.

She  _ bites _ him. 

“..Really..?” he drawls, more surprised than hurt. Amused even.

It’s.. been a long time since anyone’s put his teeth in him. The last time must have been with a little widow in training. A long time, mostly because he’d usually would have used his metal, left arm for something like this. He had not; not this time. Plausible deniability and all that; if this girl decided to tattle that she’s been attacked by a man with a metal arm. Well, that’s a pretty positive ID right there. And, he’s nearly relieved he didn’t. The arm is so very sensitive he might have pulled back, given her the chance to scream unfettered. Instead, he just pushes the flesh of his palm deeper, assured of the fact that if she failed to break bones before, now she simply will not have the leverage. 

“The Chalice..” he whispers to her. “And, if you could be kind enough not to scream, you do not need to choke on blood either.” His blood, so far. But James imagines she can feel the threat. He waits a beat for her to nod, then adjusts his right arm to a choke-hold behind her, staying out of sight. If she had hoped to deceive him she already messed up: her eyes skid to the side, hoping to get a good look at him, then zeroing in on a small earthenware pot, so indistinct James would hardly have noticed it between silver and gold. And, James nearly smacks himself in the head. Of course it would be _ that one _ .

Now james just feels stupid for needing the girl for this, and she’s more trouble than she’s worth, really. As soon as James looks around for something to tie her up, the girl is hissing curses in Jabari at him. And it’s cumbersome; with him trying to stay out of her sight lines. But she doesn’t dare scream, at least. Not that there’s anyone close enough to hear even if she did. There’s also enough rope around, wooden pillars holding up the underground corridors; decorated and wrapped with rope and tarp. He would have preferred knocking her out, but that just isn’t safe. Too much chance of serious injury.

Of course, the next word out of her mouth would be, “Dirty colonizer!” which has James suppress a gasp.

_ How does she know? _ In the dark, with him covered in dirt. And James knows he got the Jabari accent down to a T by now. He tries not to react and ties her face-first to one of the pillars. Reaching around from behind while she objects and curses him for all sorts of filth; rapist and slaver. It’s not hard to work out where she got these ideas. He recognises the cadence and rhyme, the way of thinking. She’s learned it from the horse’s mouth no doubt. This one would be the old Crone’s disciple. He can just about imagine her shriveling up and turning sour like the other, older woman advicing M’Baku down at the palace.

Still, he doesn’t want to hurt her. And James thinks he knows just how to make sure she won’t talk. “Why don’t you sit here, relax.” he tells her, honestly. “I should have your chalice returned before day-break. If you play this right your old witch of a master won’t even have to know you were dead half-asleep on your feet and failed to keep a proper watch.”

It is, he has to admit, a perfect plan.


	19. chalice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys. hope im not jumping the gun on this one, but I thought it was done so..

Shuri’s quick footsteps echo in the empty lab. Reverberating in the dark; the night’s quiet broken for short-staccato moments. Unhindered, it envelops and muffles the sounds; returning to it’s overbearing peace: black and blank like a heavy blanket. But for that one light he left on, over the empty work-table. Near empty; except for the inconspicuous cup gleaming in the yellow light. 

James holds his breath, just at Shuri’s sudden intake. Her, noticing the object; low swears, the wondering “how did  _ this _ get here..” James, noticing for the first time the beauty in its simplicity. In the simple clay and the healed, worked-over cracks. It’s something special after all.

Yet, Shuri as always is two steps ahead. She has already disregarded the object. Her stance hardens; a conclusion arrived at; a decision made. Head turning left to right, the twin buns of today’s hair-do bobbing with the movement. “James, I know you’re here. Come out,..” 

And he does. He had already meant to; though her tone momentarily slows him. Okay, so James had already known he would not be praised for this amount of ingenious thinking. James had known he needed to talk her into this. Had known she would not be easy to cajole. He’d anticipated some resistance. But Shuri is glaring at him with tired, sleep-deprived eyes. Her dress is the same one as from the night’s meeting; a beige and orange thing of loose comfort, now rumpled. Her hairstyle is slightly sagging, and the fine shoes he knew she wore earlier are gone, feet bare; probably too sore to stand another moment of confinement. 

For the first time James wonders what went on in the little more than an hour he’d been missing. Yet James can construct the highlights from the way she frowns. She regards him like an errant child, finally found. It makes him fidget, feeling dirty and sweaty and un-kept for the first time in so long. His make-shift camouflage still covers most of him, yet it provides no refuge now; only an itch where sweat washes down mud and sticks clothing to his skin. 

Shuri breathes in slowly, closes her eyes a moment; puffs herself up for something that must be a speech rehearsed many times in the last hour. But before she can get anything out, there’s a shout from outside. Followed by more disturbed shouts. Shuri pauses, sweeps towards the Wester window, one fine hand on the window sill. “Damn it. What did you do?”

“Okay,” James decides, slowly stepping up next to the princess. Her body-language is hard; nearly shaking; silently spurring the arm he would put around her waist; the kiss he’d place at her neck. Instead, James stands next to her and looks towards Jabari mountain. Black in the night, against a horizon only a shade less perfectly dark. “It’s not what it looks like, I promise.” 

Yet, James realises with an intake of breath, something is off: from the mountain silhouette now rize dark plumes of smoke, red glowing like pockmarks from where they originate. Like sores, at several spots along the path. The mental overlay already tells James it’s the watchtowers set alight. No; not the watchtowers themselves. James knows, just Shuri’s usual light melody drops low. “They’ve lit the beacons. Someone has done injustice to the mountain people... 

“James..” She says his name like a prayer; like her last breath of air, lost. “ _ James, _ did you go up the Jabari mountain, into the Silverback’s sacred temple? Did you steal a sacred artifact; the  _ Chalice _ \- from our precious allies.. -trespassing;  _ stealing; _ Did you bring it to me? While, by the way, ignoring about fifteen calls from me on your Kimoyo beads?” 

“Okay..” James pulls the bracelet from his pant’s front pocket. He hadn’t noticed the vibrations from the messages, true. Which figures, with him practically falling down the mountain through thick voilage. But, he would not have answered before anyway. Dejected, he admits: “okay, you’re right. It’s  _ exactly _ what it looks like. But you have to look at the big picture here.” 

Shuri whirls, stepping back to look up at him almost pityingly, one hand on hip. Something close to condescending creeping into her voice: “ _Big picture?_ Is that the picture of us breaching M'Baku _trust?_ Or the one where Jabari warriors are already at the end of their patience, having to bail us out at every turn? Or,” she gestures at him, almost aggressively; throws up her arms, a shake of her head, her twin buns hanging for dear life, following after her too-quick a head. “ _Or,_ the one where you just managed to commit _a_ _felony_ in just about the only country in the world that does not have your name on the extradition list?” 

“ No?” James frowns, crossing his arms, vibranium twining with flesh as he leans against the window sill she only just vacated. Soothing; projecting calm as much for his own as  _ her _ benefit now. “The one where  _ Wanda _ is in a  _ coma; _ tied to a bed and slipping away without any solution in sight.” 

Shuri stalls. “That’s..” 

_ That’s right.  _ James grimaces, only half a hair from smug. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about her.” 

“James..” Shuri sighs, steps back with a rub at her temple. She looks down, suddenly looking young, small. Unsure. “We were working on a solution to that. We were  _ getting _ to a solution to that.” 

A grunt, as James agrees. “And, if you were getting to that solution by  _ talking _ , you would have managed by now,” voice imploring, James pushes off, steps close, puts a hesitant hand on her side. Supportive, without getting too much of the grime on her:  _ “here’s _ the solution; right here. Use the Chalice, right now. Give it back to me. I’ll have it back up there; back in its spot in the temple before morning. Just keep Wanda out of view for a few hours, till the Jabari are on their way back.” 

Shuri’s arms come up; guarding. Folding up around herself, yet calling to James to enveloppe her; she grabs at him, any effort of keeping dirt from rubbing off onto her nil; “No; no, that won’t work. First of all, that would be  _ deceitful _ ..” 

James understands that much. Honestly first; in Wakanda. Yet, she clings to him. Small, frail, fingers full of his filth. Breathing into him without a hint of revulsion. James pushes on, rubs her shoulders. “So what? M’Baku is  _ not _ your friend. But Wanda. Remember Wanda _?  _ She is suffering every moment this goes on.” James feels something hard crawl up his stomach. He ignores it; swallows it down. “What’s more important? A friend, or some  _ fancy _ rules?” 

“James..,” her voice, small. Shuri buries her face into his chest. Sighs. Soft, uncertain. Lost. Like there is any kind of choice at all. Because it's a simple fact: friends go first. Friends are everything. One should move heaven and earth, for a friend. 

When James loosens his arms to the point where Shuri can push back, look up at him, what he sees takes his breath away. A conflict in her eyes; touching in its sincerity. Enticing; and something like satisfaction replaces the  _ Bucky _ in his gut. He knew this would be a break-point for her. Why this would give her difficulty. Yet still, Shuri understands.... Should understand. And yes, perhaps this for her is the first time she sees how  _ hard _ it can be to do the right thing. 

She looks at him, eyes brimming with tears. Moved, he realises. “Damn it, James. What were you thinking? I didn’t even know you  _ liked _ Wanda.” another sigh, before she hardens. And.. 

And it happens too fast. Her mind again; moving in ways he cannot follow. Turning corners, twisting down paths of logic James for all his super-soldier reflexes cannot follow. James knows her decision before she shakes her head. Knows, yet cannot stop her; that whip-lash mind leaving him in the dust: speech and acts too slow and hopelessly useless. “No, James. We  _ cannot.” _

“Why  _ not? _ ” James is still reeling, too confused to follow. “Isn’t Wanda your  _ friend? _ ” 

The princess blinks up at him, tired yet unmovable. Her mind is made; the battle lost. She huffs once, then, she gathers herself up. “The Jabari already know something’s missing James. And with means, motive, opportunity and no motive.., you are the prime suspect. We’ll fix this; but we need to clear this up first.”

And, what’s this? She’ll _ fix _ it? That’s  _ James’s _ job. To think she’d need to fix his mess.. 

“You don’t have to do _ anythin _ g.” he interrupts. “ I take the thing back, and admit it was me.” James is seething;  _ Bucky _ -angry. And, he knows; knows it’s ridiculous. He’s let her fix it all, until now. But, this. This was his  _ mission _ . It  _ cannot.  _ James breathes in, expertly bringing the pounding in his heart and limbs down to normal. Balls both fists behind her back. Yet, he is calm.

He cannot fail this;  _ has _ not failed this. Breathes down, into her neck: “friends _ first _ , Shuri. Worry about the rest later. _ I _ can fix the rest.” James is the one that fixes.

Scorn; though she tries to lighten her tone. She pushes herself back, leaning back to look him in the eye.“Tell M’Baku, to his face, the first white man living in our country stole from him?” Shuri’s eyes dance side-ways. Another shake of the head. The decision, it appears, has been made for him; The princess loses her battle, tears are brimming and lips quivering as she tries to form words: “He’ll  _ kil _ l you!”

Oh. 

And, that’s touching, James supposes. Yet, also the dumbest thing he’s ever heard from her beautiful mouth. “Na-ah,” 

James pauses, draws out the word. Looses eye-contact and finds himself staring at marble wall. 

Doesn’t she  _ know? _ “I doubt that.”

Shuri needs distance, yet cannot let go it seems. Hands still grabbing the shirt, while she pushes him to arm’s length. He lets her, listens to her fears. Her unfound, ridiculous fears. “The best you could hope for is a beating, and maybe M’Baku’s mercy. But, that is usually too late. After his battle high has worn away. He’ll  _ kill _ you.” Shuri tears away, starts pacing; agitated. “Do you even remember M’Baku? The guy that gave you a panic attack by _ looking _ at you..?”

And there she does have a point. He supposes he did kind of set a bad president there. Still, “a battle will be different. And he fights with a club. that’s.. ” James mock-swings, willing her to get it. Hasn’t she been reading  _ anything _ about him? “He’ll tire out eventually. Anyway, Wanda?”

“You doubt..“ Shuri masters her fears; beautifully. Strong and capable. Yet, unwilling or unable to take in that one vital piece or information. No, she’s angry with him now, James realises. “You  _ underestimate  _ us Wakandan warriors. You think you’re untouchable with the arm? If you were to request an official trial battle you would not even get to  _ use _ it within Jabari law.”

Isn’t she even listening? James reigns himself in, tries one last time. The effort makes him feel jittery, uncentered. He knows, as the words come, that they are wrong. That he sounds like he’s talking down at her. “It doesn’t  _ matter _ if I have the arm. M’Baku cannot...”

Her palm, demanding he stop, cuts off his breath. Shuri nods to herself, agrees. “Don’t worry. I won’t  _ let _ him kill you. I won’t let him lock you up either.” she looks down, nods to herself. Here’s what we are going to do. We’re going to..” 

When she looks up, James is long gone. The Chalice with him. And, in its place, his Kimoyo beads.


	20. Hide n seek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh dear...

There is a ledge, about one floor down from the conical roof of the Eastern Castle tower. Built from interlocking bricks of dark-green marble and gold, it folds around the tower’s body about a third of the way round. At both ends of the curved ledge two beautifully worked oversized panthers look down on the city. The left is crouched down, balling up like a cat about to pounce down. The right however sits in a regal pose, front paws a little apart and head turned up and away in a royal gesture.

James just fits in-between those paws, cradled and hidden as the sun lowers, shadows only obscuring him further in his hiding place. His broad shoulders are hunched, pulled in to fit between his knees, which are hemmed in by the statue’s strong front-paws. Ankles crossed, head pressed down against pather’s breast. James runs his fingers over the glazed edge of the cup in his lap, round and round. There’s a slight dredge at the bottom, a few drops of moist left from its previous use or condensation from it’s time in the alcove.

James can honestly say he is disappointed in Shuri.

First of all, he named her his true friend. His  _ only  _ friend. And that’s unprecedented; overconfident perhaps, but definitely something he’s never done before. Never  _ dared- _ profess that kind of loyalty to one person. But he’d thought Shuri would at least understand how special that was; would return at least an inch of the loyalty he held for her.

But Shuri doesn’t understand. 

No.  _ Worse. _ She doesn’t  _ know _ .

She doesn’t know what he is.

If she’d known, could she still love him as she had? Would she still look at him with kind eyes? Feel safe with her back to him? Would she still reach out and touch? Find comfort in his arms and return that same comfort like an equal? Hold him close like something precious?

It doesn’t seem likely.

With an effort, he untangles himself from his hiding place, deliberately staying within the long shadows of the evening sun. Stretches his back, precariously balanced on the ledge, one hand on the panther’s shoulder, the other; his flesh one, cradling the chalice. Then, he lets go of that marble image, one last rub at it’s black stone fur, and stares down at the city of Birnin Zana bustling far below.

It still confuses James that Shuri doesn’t know. Even if she only looked at his programming, that involved a lot,  _ a lot  _ of the Chair. Because the system... The words, they would never have  _ worked _ , if he had not forgotten. Or, would not have worked so well. If James had known, if he’d been able to understand how they had put them inside of him in the first place. If James had understood, he would have been able to fight them. The fact that James could not; never even remembered how they had done it, meant the process had been burned out within his fifteen minutes. Before the memories went from short-term to long term. Repeatedly, so his  _ body _ did  _ not _ forget. Yet, his mind could not understand how it was done.

And that, that kind of damage..  _ repeated _ damage. If Shuri knew anything;  _ anything _ about that; with her brain as fine and brilliant as it was, she  _ had _ to  _ know.. _ . 

Fact is, she doesn’t know. Perhaps because she doesn’t understand. Perhaps because she doesn’t want to understand. And, if that’s what it is. If that’s it. Well, James is going to make damn sure that she  _ never finds out. _

Hanging from the ledge upside-down has him outside a window that leads to a lab that looks a bit like Shuri’s, yet is never used. He shimmies the lock, a simple ledge done from inside, and folds himself inside, keeping a tab on the moving pairs of guards. Once inside, he stands a moment full-length inside the darkened lab.

The build-in security here is lax; the two of the mandatory camera’s not even working right because of a layer of dust coating them. He already knew cleaning comes through only once a week, but it’s always been a quick sweep of the floors and the table-tops and done. That’s only for the better: now James inches back inside at sun-down, he does not need to hide his foot-prints.

And yet, places such as these are in short supply, and running shorter with the hour. Just this morning Shuri herself set a special task-force of Dora and Palace guards to inspect every one of the many rooms, offices, labs and spaces to make sure all are under working surveillance. Still, for now, James is safe here. He can take a moment. Put his hand to the wall, orient; listen.

The palace is literally swarming with teams, moving around through the corridors and rooms, looking for him. Like a disturbled ant-hill, angry and excited and vigilant. They work in pairs of two now: one Jabari, one Dora. For maximum coverage; since the Jabari do not know their way around, and a lone Dora warrior can be snuck up on and left behind tied up. While he takes out the power supplies for surveillance and cameras. Again.

Still, the dodged teams are only a secondary interest; their presence another obstacle in his gauntlet. Like the camera’s, and the motion sensors and the doors in the more used parts of the castle, which actually communicate right back to Shuri when they are opened. James keeps tabs, makes mental notes, but does not worry. Because he can move with them, in time; and stay off every radar feeling for him.

Most of James’s concentration goes to the emergency strategy room, where the plans are made. Where they  _ hunt _ him. M’Baku, of course; eager for his blood. But T’Challa’s too: assured baritone, offering one option after the next; everyone one of them shot down by his sister on the spot. Because, yes. There she is. Shuri; his dear, beloved Shuri, behind her computer, head swinging from one projection to the next and typing away. The fact that she vetoes all the ideas brought to bear against James; that she hardly seems enthusiastic in helping capture him is of little consolation here. And the list of shot-down plans grows and grows:

-James no longer has his Kimoyo beads on him; finding him through them cannot work.

-Tracking heat-signatures is pointless with this many people walking around. 

-The arm is completely untraceable.

M’Baku, a lot more easy-going and loose now the old witch has sped back up to her temple with only a small escort to assess the damage to her temple, finally speaks up: “Well, that’s something. Finally found something you cannot do? It’s like that God over genie riddle. Can a god make a stone he himself cannot lift. Well, riddle solved, little princess. Guess there is such a thing as too smart..” 

“Haha,” Shuri’s not even phased. “Just because I’m _ smarter _ than  _ you _ doesn’t make me vainer too. Now that would be an impossibility, mister  _ Mountain King. _ ” 

Yes; Shuri not knowing  _ -mustneverknow- _ is only half of his problems. She is  _ hunting _ him. Helping his enemies. While Wanda is still left in a coma. While the Jabari warriors call for his blood, only slightly cowed by their Dora partners.

_ While M’Baku might secretly be Shuri’s friend as much as James ever was. _

The way they’ve been working together for the last day-and-a half certainly suggests so. Shuri, T’Challa and M’Baku. The three of them. Shuri at least snarks at M’Baku, but T’Challa and the Mountain king are getting along like a house on fire.

Waiting for another team to pass, James listens to their near-silent footsteps, the beating of their hearts warring for precedence. He is almost at the pantry, in the hall. The small one, hardly more than a broom cupboard. It’s locked. But that’s easily solved. Closing the door so that it looks undisturbed is the hard part. He keeps his left hand on the doorknob, simulating a lock. And waits. And listens.

Listens still, mostly, to Shuri. Listens, and worries. For that constant bickering, the snarky remarks back-and-forth. Well, that’s just Shuri at ease. Shuri messes with M’Baku just as she does with her brother. Border-line mean, hard remarks. It contrasts with how she’s interacted with him, and James only now realises how careful -gentle- she’s been with him every step of the way.

It kind of hurts. 

Does she really think him that broken? So delicate that she cannot even be herself with him? Doesn’t she know that even if he breaks, even if he falls apart or is cut to fucking ribbons, he’ll  _ heal _ ? Get back up like nothing ever happened, like a new person, born from the ashes?

No. no, obviously, she does not. Because she hasn’t read enough of his files to realise.

James’s resolve hardens: that’s  _ good _ . That’s _ fine. _ It’s better that way. _ -mustneverknow- _ It makes sense now, why she’d want to retire him. Put to pasture one of the greatest biological weapons of modern times and leave him with non strenuous exercises like  _ get better _ and  _ form an opinion _ . Or make friends. hah. 

Friends. Well, there’s the thing, right? Hallway safe and empty, James steps out again, into a spare kitchen that is only ever used during gatherings. Folds himself into the space under the sink, and suppresses a growl when he hears M’Baku twist the knife in his back: “He  _ does _ need to go. Out of view for a little while at least. Put him somewhere rural, out of the way. I’m not just saying because of my warriors. It is for  _ him  _ as well. There needs to be some form of consequence to these acts.”

Snarling at a dusty sponge left behind, James considers how much he  _ hates  _ the Jabari ruler. Hates T’Challa too, really. For it’s not hard to hear the king  _ agrees:  _ “not as a punishment, no. But a little space, a little time apart might be best.” 

And Shuri’s; his dear, beloved Shuri.. She pauses too long to defend him. Takes too long, before she answers, nearly small. “I’m not sure…” 

Useless. Dropped. Some  _ friend  _ Shuri turned out to be _. _

Well, obviously. Any friend of her dear-old brother’s a friend of hers. It angers Bucky, to know where he fits in that hierarchical ladder. But, he’s kind of fucking _ used _ to it. And, he does agree with the principle: A friend of a friend, is also a friend. Well, James just needs to get back on that chain, or he’s so out of the palace. Out of Shuri’s life. Out back in the cold. James is  _ not _ going back; not yet. Not without a fight. 

Yes; sometimes, you have to make your own destiny. Sometimes, you have to fight for what you want. And if James has very little experience with  _ wanting, _ well that just makes this more important. More precious. He  _ will _ fight for this. That part, at least, he knows how to do.

There are only two options, and the first is infinitely superior. Better, all round, surer. Almost guaranteed to work. Only one drawback he can see  _ -Shurimustnotfindout-, _ but the risk so small. It should work. It  _ will. _

However, it also involves M’Baku. And even if James knows; can reason to himself that it’s a win/win plan, that there’s no chance or next to none of it failing.. He is..

He is afraid.

So James goes for plan number two.

Plan number two is stupid and half-formed and probably not going to work. Plan number two involves the little liquid at the bottom of the chalice. Could that little bit of moist at the cup’s bottom be the drink that needs to pass Wanda’s lips to waken her? It seems worth the try.

The Winter Soldier falls through the smallest cracks; through the meshes that tighten and tighten in a way that he warns him that even  _ he _ cannot keep this up: a crawlspace here, a ledge outside of a window there. Too many cameras; too much surfielance. Yet, a little careful force applied to an enforced window lock finds him in front of Wanda’s bed in medical around midnight. The room is quiet and dark, one heartbeat from the bed, a second from a woman sleeping in a chair in a corner of the room.

James squints at the woman, takes up her scent. Her posture; wrapped up almost unrecognizable under a blanket. Yet, he can still tell, this is queen Ramonda. He thinks this is odd; weird. There is no guard anywhere close by, and he does not understand why she would sit with a woman she hardly knows, and who is in a coma besides, in the middle of the night.

But, it doesn’t matter. Even if she wakes, the queen cannot physically restrain him. She is not armed, and even if she was, she is old. Not fit, even if she might have been, once long ago. She wouldn’t even slow him down. Besides, she is deep asleep. James is completely silent as he turns from her, and frowns down at Wanda.

The problem is to get that little moisture past her lips. Her mouth is unobscured, but James isn’t sure at all her automated swallowing response will work, or if the fluid will just leak out of her mouth again. The safest way would be through a nasal feeding tube; just stick a needle into the feeding bag… but, though Wanda has a two-pronged tube up her nose, what runs through is not liquid but probably oxigen? That is an odd thing to James. Stil, she does have an intravenous line running. James supposes he can dump the stuff right into her blood. He would, if it was him. But, what effect would doing  _ that  _ have? Wanda is not a real person, not anymore. But the changes in her are different. Not so much in the physical as in the mental. Shooting dirty water into her veins.. 

would that be lethal?

“You’ll need an Elder Dreamer to perform the ritual needed for her waking.” the Queen, behind him; James had not heard her waken. That is.. -James jumps back, chalice half-cradled, half-hidden in his arms. Looks left, towards the still-opened window; his egress path, still open.

That is. surprising.

“James..” Ramonda gets to her feet slowly, one hand reaching out. Palm up, voice imploring. “Please..?”

With a swallow he looks at her palm. He.. he’s being an idiot. James knows this. This will never work. Fingers dig into the earthenware dangerously tight before he can loosen them. Self-conscious; the mess he must look. Dirt washed away by sweat, painted over by dust from crawling where no sane man would go. Hair in his eyes, on his face in clumps. Hugging a pathetic cup.

Parting with the thing, wrapped to his chest, is still hard. Yet, he manages. Stretches both arms and looks down at the simple cup in his arms. Staring down, he wonders if this was really worth the trouble. With a sigh, James offers it up, puts it carefully; reverently, into the queens waiting hand.

She grunts, the hand given the chalice dropping to her side, before she carefully places the chalice on the bed-side table, eyes never leaving his. Then, again, that hand requesting. Empty palm. Asking; demanding. A queen’s iron demand. James could not deny it if he tried. Yet, he is left looking at his own, empty hands in answer.

She wouldn’t.. She wouldn’t ask him to return it, would she?  _ Shuri _ gave it to him. If anyone would be allowed to take it, it would be her.. And again. Is it even possible to take it off? The old one did not. James has to curse his rash decision to skip from basic maintenance right up to advanced features, disregarding the rest as unimportant. He’s not sure… James takes his left wrist in his right, casting a confused frown down at it and up back at the queen’s face; stretches it her way, wonders if best effort will count here.

She huffs, grabs both his hands hers; his right in her left, his left, vibranium weapon in her frail little right. Holding hands with him like at some spring festival. “James, Shuri has been worried sick. Please, let me call her.”

He stares down at their interlocking hands. All he gets out is a confused sound. Perhaps the queen doesn’t know yet that she means to send him away. But, now that the Wakandan royal family has gotten a decent taste of his particular brand of poison.. Still, he can still _ fix _ this. James, whatever else his short-coming is good at fixing. He needs to prove that, at least. Needs to show that, before he lets them catch him. This; this feels like surrender.

Still, looking down at those fine, frail hands around his wrists. Can he even take them back without hurting her? He is not good at escaping holds without use of force. James racks his minds for the right move; any that leave her with at least both wrists unbroken. It is hard though, risky. And, James would not like to hurt Shuri’s.. Shuri’s..

“Mother!” 

That grave voice, with an uncharacteristic hint of panic. A black, cat-eared face has him jumping back. And, look! Surprise, surprise. James  _ could _ free himself, though the queen pivots, turns and falls to the ground, an outstretched arm landing on Wanda’s hospital bed on her way down. It only makes her twist on her way down, and though James is inside the windowsill before she’s even on the floor; before the Black Panther dives, manages to get a hand under the queen’s head at least. Manages to save his mother from a concussion...

James pauses, a split second, to see. Knows serious damage to the queen has been averted, no thanks to himself. Then he turns, and looks down. He’s still at least seven stories up. But, he is on the Eastern side; the city side at least. the streets of Birnin Zana will provide a lot more safety; a lot more hiding places than the castle did. More even than the jungle to the West. 

Queen Ramonda has different priorities though. “Stop fussing, she hisses to her son, before raising her voice, imploringly. “James..?”

And James; idiot that his is.. Responds. Turns back, losing even more of those precious seconds; looks towards the woman, towards the son. The mask pulls away, disappearing and revealing a gulping king T’Challa. “You are alright.”

Something passes between the pair, and the king’s voice raises. “Which, of course you are. I just get worried; what with dad getting murdered right in front of my eyes. It’s fine.” he breathes, cradles his mother closer, then focuses an intense gaze on James. “It’s alright. You’re okay. Let’s sit down and talk this through, okay James?”

More people are arriving though. Inside, and outside. Dora, Jabari. Other windows of the tower, above, below, and around him showing faces and spears. The street below crowding with spear-bearing warriors. Wanda’s hospital room slowly fills up with more and more people. General Okoye, M’Baku.. He can hear Shuri, back there; pushing through.

Two steps back inside, away from the Eastern window, and James leaves before he can see her; before he fails. Before Shuri can make him fail.. He turns and dives for the Southern window instead. The glass is fortified, of course. If a normal man jumped into it, he would just bounce back.

But James is no ordinary man, and the vibranium arm punches right through, with him behind, falling head-down. He dives down and rolls to his feet on the Palace wall walkway, two shocked guards somewhere behind him when he starts to run. Then three more steps, and he leaps down to the streets of Birnin Zana, one foot landing on a hatched roof, before he twists into a controlled fall, down to the cobbled streets. 

James doesn’t look back up; doesn’t look back at all. Just runs. He knows, they will chase. That’s good. That’s fine. 

There’s only one thing left to try now.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chap is a little symbol heavy at the start. With the panther n all. Hope you guys like that kinda thing.


	21. midnight sighseeing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a little night-time trip through Birnin Zana.

James runs like the wind; this time not heading towards the deep jungles, but the other way. Into the city of Birnin Zana. As dense and thickly populated as any forest, the city stretches out from the Royal Caste in all directions but the jungle road into the mountains. A cobble web of towers and storied roads three, four levels high, metal like lace and glass like mirrors gleaming up into the sky above. 

James has had the whole day to study its intricate roads from above; its winding ways and lattice frameworks. On top of that he is an expert at managing the complications of city escapes. He’s been taught the theories; has studied every map of every American city repute, and quite a few Eastern, European, and Arabian ones. Add to that decades of experience, oh yes: he has escaped pursuit through the bustle of Hong-Kong, followed a mark through a Brazillian Carnaval without missing a step, filled in missing intelligence with instincts and training in too many places to name; too often. James is, and will always be the proverbial homing pigeon, like there’s a compass lodge somewhere in his brain, making the one on his arm excess and overkill. James is..

James is  _ completely  _ lost within a minute of hitting the streets of Birnin Zana.

It’s just that nothing makes  _ sense _ in Birnin Zana. The maps in his head are of no use as soon as he’s a few levels down, finding a whole new  _ under _ the city. And, it’s completely disorientating: he runs past an ancient looking carpet shop, the street winding up with the mountain, takes a turn, cuts back and somehow ends up on a field of sweetcorn, hemmed in between towers reaching up for the sky. Another twist back, trying a stairway heading down and he’s suddenly in an all-night mall. A  _ crowded _ mall, with signs for subways and light-rail. And. 

And he’d hit  _ those _ . The light-rails and subways. Anywhere else, he’d disappear into the crowds and be one with them. Become one with the bustle and fade away. But, he gets so many bewildered looks, too many confused glances. James cuts right back out, ducking away into an alcove. Obviously, Wakanda may have nominally opened its borders, but a white man is still an oddity here. Moreso, -and James doesn’t know why he would be surprised- a disheveled hobo is an even  _ greater _ oddity. And that’s definitely the look he’s sporting by now: a crazy, wild hobo at that.

He presses deeper into the alcove right as a group of Jabari file in. For once, it’s not the mixed teams. Why becomes obvious a moment later, when M’Baku himself walks into the open space. He’s cradling something against his chest, the other hand hefting that impressive club again. James stares from his hiding place, watching as he hands over the object to one of his men, earthenware browns flashing only a moment. M’Baku has got his Chalice back.

James curses, and is of half a mind to take it back on principle. But, he relinquished it once already. He is still half of a mind to step out in to open though; have it out right now. But then two Dora/Jabari teams come in through another ingress. And soon the first bewildered shopper is lifting a finger, pointing James’s way. He’s too close, there will be too many people walking in. It is time to get  _ moving _ .

That, at least, he can do. James is fucking  _ fast _ . No-one on foot can keep up, and he’s yet to see a car that can tackle these little bystreets and alleyways that run through the heart of Birnin Zana. Back up a level he runs into more teams, and several are riding air-born motorbikes, so he cuts, cuts again and takes the steepest stairs, the narrowest walkways. No unenhanced individual can keep up with that, not even on a bike. James already knows that as long as they fail to corner him: no-one can keep up.

No-one but the Black Panther  _ himself _ . Of course, the next turn of a winding street has James facing right off with the king. James doesn’t even slow; only changes directions; up a wall two steps, grabbing a window sill and hoisting himself onto a landing one story up.

Of course T’Challa  _ would _ show up. 

And, from the sound of scratching and thumping behind him,  _ of course  _ he’d give chase. 

Well, things are  _ different _ now. Different from eighteen months back; when T’Challa came at him in a grief-fueled rage. James is at least forty pounds lighter, a lot better balanced, and not even half as tired as last time. He runs across the plated roof of a house stuck to the side of an high-rise edifice of steel and stone, jumps across a larger street, and hoists himself through a window. Past a young couple, frozen in the act of what appears to be a proposal, out their door and into the next street.

He dodges another Jabari/Dora guard pair, who had been setting a barricade, nearly frowning at the pair when they fail at any combined effort of stopping him. Considering how well a spear and club could work together, it is near baffling. They stand next to one another, and the Dora doesn’t even level her spear as he charges, just makes a grab for him. James can actually cut through the middle, leaving the pair floundering. They even manage to delay T’Challa another precious second, so James could just about thank them.

Over, down something almost like a chute; perhaps to let the sunlight down, guarding rails no obstacle for him. Neither is the thirty foot drop. And James doesn’t pause, doesn’t look when he’s somehow ended up in ancient Egypt, or close enough: the stone-work in gold and green marble is obviously Wakandan style. Still, it feels like a crypt. The lighting, filtering down while the sun’s been down for hours now. The ancient art, on display openly and without any guards, even at night like this. 

The open museum is wasted on James; he does not have  _ time _ to look. He runs, commits another sin by using an ancient statue for a foot-hold when he climbs up again, and makes his way out through another glassless sky-light just as T’Challa drops after him, calling his name.

James does not listen to the man, just keep running. Another rooftop, another garden. Another park. The Dora and the Jabari still fail to work together, and they must be tracking T’Challa, not him. Still, even if they remain a step behind, they are closing in; on their hover-bikes and rhino mounts. And soon a small square would have him turn around, if not for the Black Panther only steps behind: A dozen Dora women on the left side, a Dozen Jabari warriors on the right. There is no time to wafer; James jumps right in between the two groups, evades spears that he hopes are not meant to kill, diving under clubs and down. Wakandan weaponry crashes around him like waves, spears and clubs cracking, radiating blue lightning that has him flinching too hard in recognition. 

Yet, again, they clash as much against him as against each other. One spear clicks against his metal arm, resounding with that deep chime he is far from used to, but the next collides with a club. Again, the Gorilla and Panther tribe are more of a hindrance to each other than a help. At least four seconds of scrambling, before a commanding low voice calls over the racket; instantly recognised as Okoye, calling the Dora into attention with a, "back up; Waving Reed formation."

Dora and Jabari step back at her call to “hold your spears”, the men a little confused and obviously only guessing at the Doras battle formations. James has to admit, he’s as confused as them; Okoye is not engaging, spear still up in one hand while the other is raised and open, placatingly. 

James had expected for her to jump at the chance to ‘measure spears’, as the expression is here. But she’s only shaking her head at him, giving a disapproving frown. It soon becomes obvious what she is going for: in a combined effort the Jabari and Dora create a hemisphere, hemming in James in all directions but one. The one direction that he has no intention of moving: because King T’Challa is waiting, mask receded and clawed arms down and unthreatening. "Sergeant Barnes?”

The voice, calm and commanding, sends a shiver down his James’s back. He is not ready; this is not the  _ time _ , not the  _ place _ , not the  _ right person _ . He casts around a moment, eyes landing on an open window over the square. It’s part of a series of the earthen stone huts, built right into a wall of an up-town Hong-Kong style sky-scraper. The oddity does not stop him beyond the consideration the open-windowed hut, at least, should be abandoned. Two steps and he jumps for it, straight up and hoists himself inside. A quick look over the sill shows him the king with one hand raised in a warding, stopping motion. Okoye behind, copying and relaying the order. Then T’Challa raises his voice once again. “James... are you  _ leaving _ us?"

What? No, no. That is not.. James casts around the odd hut, finds it empty, and folds himself down against the back wall, staring at that open gaping window like it’s about to spew the armies of hell down on him. That might actually be preferable; the Black Panther is more scary, and T’Challa has that annoying knack to step right on his conscience. That trampled, mauled thing he thought he’d lost as much as his real arm. But, hey;  _ look! _ One black-booted foot deceptively lightly placed and it screams at him like shattered toes, bone fragments like shards grinding together.

Leaving? No; hell no! That; that is  _ absolutely not.. _

“If you wish to leave us Sergeant, we will not stop you..” T’Challa sounds honestly saddened by the prospect. Sad, but accepting. And why does the man  _ care, _ damn it? But still, still. 

“No!” he finally croaks, finding breath from somewhere deep inside. Damn it, this is what he  _ hates _ about the king. Too nice. Too accepting. But then, you do the _ one thing, _ and suddenly there’s all these consequences and of course there are; _ there are always consequences. _ But. James has a plan. He still can fix this. James just needs to go back. He just needs a little more time, and a little.. At least a  _ chance. _ And Shuri, Shuri  _ shouldnotknow. God, where  _ is _ she?  _ Is she still at the palace? or is she out there too, looking for him? _ What if she sees?  _ Shuri must not find; should not be exposed to.. No. She doesn’t need that kind of blood. James swallows, measuring out his words. ”Is Shuri with you..?”

There is a pause, before the king answers, “She is not. Do you require her presence?”

James sighs, relieved, breath returning to him. “Yes. yes please,” It’s coming together, now; James can make it. He huffs; of course it comes together. He is  _ good _ at this. Contingency plans are his forte. Another deep breath, longues finally unrestricted with the surety of safety, and he uses the arm to listen around the many little huts. The left one is inhabited, one person up and moving, awakened by the racket. But in the one to the right, he doesn’t even find one hartbeat. No one is there. If he remembers right, that one should no longer leave him over the square. James digs, vibranium arm crumbling wall like paper, and starts to push through. 

“She will be with us in a few minutes.” the king, voice even, but the undertone is worried. “Can you please step out here, Sergeant Barnes?”

James pauses, breath huffing as he pulls back into the first room. Can T’Challa _ see  _ him? Probably not without his mask. And it would be hard to get a termo on James anyway, with this many people inside the huts. He thinks, a moment more, while the king’s voice reprimands him with a soft, almost kind “James..?”

“I.. can’t yet. Sorry.” Then, he’s moving. He finds the corner of the next room, overlaying it with the map already in his head. Digs down, right behind where he knows the support pillar will be, floor folding away for his hand like cardboard. And considers the drop below. He is no longer over the square, but over a lower-level high-way. Still, T’Challa’s loud voice gives him pause.

“I just need you to know, James. There’s been no serious harm done as of yet. Mother.. explicitly told me to convey she is fine. Your friend from the Dora, Mohai is fine. The priestess you’ve encountered is okay, and M’Baku has his chalice back...”

Teeth bared, James tries to stay absolutely still. Is T’Challa lying? James thought they didn’t  _ do  _ that, here. He heard them talking; knows what they mean to do. And he supposes, it’s true. They will not  _ stop _ him from leaving. But, that’s not the problem is it? James does not want to leave. he..

“The Jabari high-priestess of course would like to string you up and geld you, but that means no change in her opinion of you.. and, I dare say, of any man alive..” there’s a few chuckles for that, and James is nearly sure it’s Jabari chuckling mostly. It’s almost enough for him to want to see.. But, he shakes his head, puts his attention on the road below and tries not to listen to the king’s words. “It’s kind of a relief, talking without her excellence, the high-priestess. She has  _ quite _ the commanding presence and some rather  _ strong opinions _ .. As for M’Baku…” 

James drops, his silhouette hidden behind the heavy support pillar, and falls all the way down to the highway below. Crouching small in the grass. He’s right between the lanes now, a small island of no-man’s land behind guardrails. James rolls underneath that guardrail, into the highway lane, missing a front wheel tire by a hair, and grabs on with the metal arm. It groans, pulls at his shoulder so hard it  _ hurts, _ despite Shuri’s improvements. But a moment later he’s speeding along, ass and boots dragging over the concrete road. So, he finds purchase for his other hand, for his toes, and pulls himself up against the chaisy. 

Once James gets out from under the car at the next light, he finds another light-rail station. This one is nearly abandoned but it has to be three am in the morning by now, so James hopes everywhere will be the same. Hands tucked away in his pockets and face down and turned away, hoping his hair will hide most of him, he waits on the silent platform. Lost as he is, he does remember the name of the station he’d found himself in near the palace. And Wakanda transport is as quick as it is free, so he soon finds himself back in the mall area. It is a lot quieter than it had been the hour or so earlier, yet not as deserted as he would have liked. He keeps to the walls and shadows, hoping most of the guard forces have conglomerated at his red hearing of a hiding place. 

Of course, M’Baku is no longer at the mall, but once on street-level James finds him quickly. As expected the man travels on foot; aversion of technology slowing him down once again. And, as expected, the chief leaves quite a trail: a pair of old men, debating the return of the Jabari in their society and what it would mean so loudly James can hear them from a block off. Then, an awe-struck night vendor that just had a dozen Jabari warriors needing some rehydration after their run from the castle. And finally, the Mountain King’s voice itself: commanding and strong and  _ looking for James _ . 

Well, it looks like M’Baku will find him. It looks like there will be the epic showdown he’d hoped for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: kind of hoped to go right to the next chapter. But, well, I guess I had to do this; show where every1’s at so to speak. But NOW we finally get to the climax. yay!


	22. spar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> love it when a plan comes together...

James sleeks down the street behind the Jabari vanguard. Silent and in-step with their treads, a stalking shadow cast in streetlight. He gets about thirty paces off before they notice him; before a warrior in the back turns, with a yell. It’s way too late, in his professional opinion. Had James been armed.. Had he had a sniper rifle on hand. 

Well, but that’s a lot of ifs, and to be honest, very little will hold up against a good sniper with a decent sight-line. And they do well; when they finally do spot him: fan out; surround him. Which is best practice, really. And just what he had expected. Allowing them, James takes a wide stance. Feet planted, arms hanging. He lets  _ them  _ come to him, face angled down and hidden behind a curtain of hair. From behind that safety, he follows the individual warriors without really looking; eyes unseeing on the pavement. They are but extensions of the real threat; the great mountain of a man that plants himself straight in front of James, staff-that-if-a-club struck into pavement with finality. 

M’Baku is just as tall, just as wide as James remembers. Yet, there’s a difference, to stand here in challenge. To know what is coming. And this, the stare-down that now follows is familiar territory to both of them. A silence sizing up; measuring. Looking for weakness and strength without moving, vying for the advantage; for that moment when one of them breaks the strenuous contact and loses nerve.

It’s M’Baku that breaks. Ending the silence; yet not in defeat; his game is a different one; one less known to James, and it takes him a moment to register that shaking, that rumble is his opponent. And, another still, to place that noise: the slow roll of it, the staccato beat.

The Mountain King is  _ laughing _ . 

The realisation draws James’s eyes. Confusion plain on his face; a little wry as the giant warrior spreads his arms in a welcoming gesture. The laugh keeps rolling though; a little too long for just those few seconds to be comfortable, before he proclaims, loud and boisterous: “White Wolf,” a slow shake of the head, as he lowers his trunk-like arms. “James.. You are an  _ odd _ one.” 

James blinks, tearing his eyes away and casting them down, returning his attention to the warriors, fanning out to the end of his peripheral vision. One more step, and he will no longer be able to see those furthest back. They will be behind him, only sound and instincts left to warn James of an incoming attack. Still, he gives a short nod, agreeing with M’Baku with his assessment. And the man doesn’t know half of it.

Still, the mountain feels the need to explain: “first, you  _ run _ from me with your tail between your legs.” M’Baku’s grin grows wide, arms gesturing up again, that great fur on his shoulders heaving when his shoulders ripple, muscles taunt; making James wonder, isn’t the man  _ hot _ with that clung to his back? “.. and then you  _ steal _ from me.  _ Don’t you know that’s the wrong way around? _ ” 

The men at the outside of the vanguard step, closing that proverbial nose, and James moves back with them; carefully measured. The movement pulls M’Baku’s attention, head cocking slightly, before he follows forward, taking the ground given. “Tell me, White Wolf. What are you doing here? Have you come to apologise?” he grunts, a wicked shine lighting up his face. “ I suppose you have been entertaining, but it would need to be a pretty convincing apology for me to be tempted to accept.” 

At that, James grunts his agreement, before clearing his throat in an effort to speak clearly. “I’ll do you one better, Mountain King. “I’ll  _ fight  _ you.” 

They freeze; not just M’Baku, but his warriors as well. A stilling in shock and outrage; like he hasn’t wrenched from them their heart’s desire. Like none of them are tempted, by the promise of  _ fame. _ The ever-lasting glory a victory would bring  _ any of them _ . Instead, they act outraged. Like James just suggested they take those clubs of theirs and shove them where the sun doesn't shine. That image at least puts half a grin on James’s face.

It’s mirrored a moment later by M’Baku’s; raised to a teeth-bare smile. “ Are you this deluded? Or just confused? Why would I even bother with the likes of you. You are .. “ he gestures, lost for words. James has them for him though: 

“the Fist of Hydra? The Ghost? Pretty much a symbol for everything wrong with the world? A legend?” James lifts a lazy finger, not trying too hard. Projecting calm. “You got your pelt from some silverback gorilla. Impressive, I suppose. But that’s still just an animal, in the end. Why not measure yourself against a real monster, from the real, big-bad  _ outside _ world?” 

They pause again, and this time James is nearly sure the Mountain King drags it out extra long, for effect perhaps. Then, he laughs again. Louder than before, booming voice emulating mirth. “Truly. You finally find your courage,  _ James Barnes _ . And  _ this _ is what you do with it?” 

No, definitely for effect. What James had already suspected is proven true now: M’Baku is playing a part. A role. And James now knows it’s only part for his benefit. It’s M'Baku’s warriors; his own men, that are the real audience. James can work with that. This; it’s not even pride. No, this is about  _ standing. _ Of course it is: if M’Baku is chosen by his own people, his people are the ones who hold the ultimate power. Their opinion of him  _ matters _ .

James puffs out a long breath, falling into something like a gun-slinger cowboy stance. A copy of what he’s seen young soldiers emulate. James knows he can pull it off better: “come on, how about it?” It’s not hard now; and he is smiling like an undead, he knows. James  _ feels  _ like one. Like a devil, or a demon. He lets his voice carry: “just you and me. My arm, your club. Or do you doubt your skills?” 

M’Baku blinks at him; confusion and wariness in his eyes. But, he too can see the reaction in his men. It’s one James now knows he cannot ignore. And the silence says it all: James is so close, he can feel it. He smiles, in early victory. “C’m on!” conspiratory, he angles his upper body just a little closer, lowering his voice just shy of whispering. Yet, still loud enough for the other warriors to hear: “I’m still not used to this new arm, see? So you might just  _ stand a chance. _ ” 

Something changes in that expression; something that suddenly makes the man tower over James. Something that feels like equal measures rage and disappointment. It doesn’t matter: that giant club comes swinging with an accompanying battle-yell, and James has his way. They will fight, finally. 

There is no time for celebration, however: James is forced to dance back, then scramble the extra foot when he is still nearly too close; hair following in the drag of that giant vibranium end cutting through hair. The end of a club too big for any normal man to lift.

James releases a breath, crouches with one foot forward into a battle stance and brings his arms up into firsts. Stay loose. Stay moving; it’s important to stay moving. The Mountain speaks; the mountain spits rage: “Insulting me was your  _ second _ mistake, Colonizer.” Like a giant grey-back himself the man grows at him, that flag-pole for a club swinging again; effortlessly in his giant hands. “Your  _ first mistake  _ was to underestimate us.”

James grunts; he doesn’t think he underestimated M’Baku. A proud man, wanting to be an example for his tribe. Well; he can be today. James lunges, swings once, with the metal arm; a faint. Then follows up with the real one. Aims for the face; he can do this. But, a broad biceps gets in the way, deflecting the impact. That’s okay though. He doesn’t  _ need  _ to do damage. Just be aggravating, and keep  _ moving. _ The semicircle of warriors moves loosely with them, cheering their chief. Booing at their nemesis. 

“I’ll admit, I was amused, up to this point.” M’Baku monologues; thankfully without any input needed, “but now you have gone  _ too far _ .” The club - it must be heavy. It looks bigger and bulkier than even The Winter Soldier's original arm. Still, it dances and weaves through the air, like an animal all on it’s own. Fast enough for James to need all his reflexes to keep out of reach. Blocking would be better: blocking with his strong, beautiful left. But the memory of that chime, of his insides shaking is still sharp. James does not know what will happen when the club hits Shuri’s arm, but he is not all sure he can keep fighting. It is  _ important  _ to keep fighting. Important to stay on his feet. Stay sharp. Just a little more; a little longer. He knows, he is close.

Another swing, cutting through the air so tightly James flinches back. And when he meets his opponent’s eyes, he knows M’Baku didn’t miss the reaction. James curses, breathes through his nose and projects the calm he  _ should _ have. Is supposed to have. Project the kind of superior confidence that will get the Jabari ruler to truly lose his cool. To truly fight with the intent to kill. To  _ destroy _ . Paste on a lazy grin, act like that club swinging is no treat at all. It _ is _ no threat at all, James knows.

A careful swipe to the man’s arm-guards with his left, that nearly gets him caught in bracelets and adornments, but it’s the clear look at his opponent’s face that shows James he is not doing well enough though: M’Baku’s warriors may be goading him, cheering him to tear James to shreds. But M’Baku himself fights with precise calculation. The man is too calm, too  _ smart _ . And with a start James realises that perhaps he  _ has _ underestimated the Jabari ruler, in this. But no; that cannot be right. M’Baku is known to be a blood-thirty warrior. Besides, no-one would pass up a chance to take down the Winter Soldier. James just needs to get that killer instinct up to the front.

Just when James has convinced himself; hardened himself, the chieftain steps back, eyes strangely distant. “You.. I do not feel your heart is in this fight, White Wolf. is this truely how you wish this to end?”

And that. That gets a laugh from him; shocked. “Don’t worry. You cannot  _ end _ me.” James’s voice grows, fortified by fact. “Not with that club of yours.” 

A sigh, low and annoyed. “Your Hubris knows no end. I suppose that is where you show your true colors, Colonizer.” The club smacking into his own palm, M’Baku straightens himself for a long, agonizing moment. “Then, have it your way, I suppose.”

They rain down again, those pounding beats. So much like a cane, yet so much heavier. A stick right out of his nightmares. Wielded not like a warning but true consequence. Wielded by someone so much stronger. A strike to the shoulders would pull him down, a strike to the head would.. 

With how hard the Mountain hits, James might well pass out on first impact. Just one moment of blinding pain, and then blackness. That would be.. 

That would be  _ perfect _ . 

That would be ideal. It is what he is here for. All he needs to do: This, is all he needs to do. Lowering his defences, ever so carefully… James steps forward, fists too low, body angle too far. M’Baku takes the bait, swings for the hole in his guard. A long, powerful swing sailing right at him, goal somewhere on the jaw. Impact imminent he...

James  _ blanches _ , feet falling out from him; flinches hard when one knee hits the ground. A screaming in his head, over his burning breath; yelling  _ getup, getup! _ If he rests now; if he sits down now.. It’s death all over. - _ No, not death. _ There is no death for him. A club would  _ not _ end him. Not with one hit, not twenty. All he can get is that temporary death, where he forgets his name, his identity. His everything. All it would do is hurt and silence-and-fear-whoishewhoishewhy? And. that’s nothing. That doesn’t  _ matter. _

And yet, and still.. James scrambles, panicked. The mantra somewhere inside  _ -On your feet, back on your feet- _ so much stronger than any argument, any reasonable thought he can put forth. Eyes no longer his to control; panicked, dull and glassy, searching and waiting for the swing his weakness elicited; the blow, the  _ real _ one. 

And M’Baku, like a shadow over him, frozen and still, club still in the air, catching his eye. Another moment, before he lowers it, slowly, in both hands. The Jabari fixes his armguards, then raises his eyes to pierce James’s; measuring him once again: careful, dissecting, seeing right through him.

The cold, cruel certainty that he _ failed _ hits James like a wave of ice. That. That could have been the hit he needed; the one he wanted; the one to finish this. And he failed; failed himself and Shuri and everyone else when it could have been so easy. James turns, step away; both feet swaying under him, knees useless and stupid; and screams at the sky.  _ “Coward!” _

He’s not screaming at M’Baku though, and the man knows it. The chief can see; James’s anger is directed in, not out. And with every moment, with every act, James is making it worse. Fucking  _ idiot _ . Useless. James should have known he would be. Where is Bucky when he needs him? Bucky, at least, never  _ cared. _ Never felt threatened by anything. Never thought of consequences. 

_ Bucky  _ could have his skull pounded into mince-meat;  _ had _ had it pounded in. repeatedly. And he had  _ laughed _ about it.

Scrubbing at his eyes, James tries to rally. Hoping for Bucky is pointless. Bucky will not show;  _ never _ shows when he could be of help. Not without a target, not without someone to hate. And M’Baku, for all his strength and bluster, is not the type to grab Bucky’s ire. James breathes, trying to gather himself. He’s on his own. But that should be okay. He’s always on his own, when the chips are down. And. All he needs is. is. Just one hit. One clean hit, M’Baku is strong enough; he’ll knock him straight out. If he means to continue after that well, that’s his right. He will. He will heal. “Come on, M’Baku. Is that the best you can do..?”

A barring of gleaming teeth in a shadow rearing up above him. “Are you  _ taunting _ me? Child’s play boy. Try harder.” 

James swallows; wondering what else to say, to do. if he can even do it; if he’d manage to hold still, even if he gets M’Baku to strike at him again. If only James could sit. It’s easier not to fight back, when he’s sitting. Easier not to flinch or move. (They would keep Shuri away from his body, surely. Then later, down in their morgue, he’ll slip away. Come back to her during mourning. She.. Shuri will probably not question too closely, if she has not inspected his body. The doctors will just have made a mistake, pronouncing him dead.)

Again. 

James lowers his guard, bit by bit. Unobtrusively lets the man corner him, allows him the advantage. An angle, that screams free hit. It is a good ploy. All he needs is for M’Baku to _ want _ to hit him. For M’Baku to lift that club once more; to take one more swing. James licks his lips, casting about: “You know, I’ve cut little girls to ribbons for less backtalk than that,” narrows his eyes. “You got a family, back up that treehouse in your mountain? Hiding a little family in there?” 

It does. It does absolutely nothing. The Mountain  _ grunts _ at him, more in pity than any anger. “What are you looking for, Colonizer?” M’Baku’s voice is pensive, club lowered, eyes searching to connect with James’s; which -allowing that, would be the most foolish thing to do right now. “You speak fighting words, move with the dance. But I can see in your eyes, you are not in this. What do you want of me?”

The game is up, at this point, James knows it. M’Baku has lost any will to fight. But, does he  _ need _ the will? All he needs, perhaps, is the _ obligation _ . Desperately, James brings his face close, whispering so the other warriors will not hear. “Do I need to spell it out to you? You came here looking for reparations. I am offering them to you. Take what you will. Your tribe demands it, you  _ need _ it.” James bares his teeth, trying for a gruesome smile; wondering if it is working at all. “So go ahead, prove your manliness. Clobber or cut or stick your club up my ass. It doesn’t really matter. You see, whatever you do, I -unlike my victims- heal right back up.”

“Are you.. ” Voice above, close’ a little too close for comfort. M’Baku’s eyes drill into him, the only armor left the curtain of his hair; the only possible deflection turning his head away. “Do you think you are immortal?” 

“Close enough. I know for a fact you cannot beat me to death. For. a. Fact. It’s been tried;  _ tested. _ ” James’s breath hitches, nearly hysterical. “So you see, it doesn't matter what you do. Best you can do is cut my head off and keep it far enough from my body that it doesn't grow back on!” 

“Hah.” for all his booming laughter, this time M’Baku sounds sad as he says it. “I see. So, what would be the point of beating you, when you are obviously not even trying to win?”

“Oh, please. All Kings are sadists at heart.” James casts around, steps back. Not even trying to lower his voice anymore; not even bothered with the realisation: his face is too wet. Who cares? “And even if you are not, you need to prove yourself, for your people.”

“I see.” James hears more than sees M’Baku put his club down, resting on it like a staff once again. His eyes survey his warriors, attention only half on James. “Your debt in the eye of the public would be paid. And I suppose you expect me to leave you be, because of guilt if nothing else. As with T’Challa, when he owed you the debt for hunting you, and let you stay in Wakanda to heal.” The man speaks slowly, deliberately. When James finally finds the courage to look at him, he has his club in both hands, running his fingers over the fine workmanship on the shaft pensively. M’Baku finally looks up; opens his arms in a gesture of peace and takes a step forward that is more threatening than when he was wielding his weapon to strike. “It is not a bad plan, of itself. And, you are not wrong. I would feel very guilty, if I had given into rage here and now. But..” M’Baku fixes his arm braces again, then raises his head to confront James; demanding and hard. Dark eyes roving again; pinning and demanding and merciless. “ But, I am afraid I am not quite caught up in a fit of rage. So, what would you do, if I simply  _ stop? _ If I refuse to fight on, what then?”

“Then.” James gulps a breath; conceding ground before he glowers back, staring down a gaping oblivion he does not know how to get out of. “Then.. then I  _ beat _ you. It’s inevitable, if you do not defeat me. I will win; you lose face. And you are already on thin ice with your tribe, I know. Can you really take another blemish to your honor? Your reputation? You  _ need  _ this, as much as I.”

“Not a bad point, I admit.” A smirk, still more sad than sadistic, and M’Baku turns to surgery his warriors, arms gesturing in a broad, eye-catching besture. “And, if you get your way? Do you mean to stay as you are now? Keep the status quo, for however long as possible? Trail after our little princess like a love-sick puppy for the rest of your days?”

James nearly gives ground again. M’Baku makes it sound like a bad thing. Like ‘the status quo’ is some precarious balance, something caught between two moments of movement and suspended; forever still in a place where no natural occurrence should ever be kept. A butterfly, frozen in flight. Yet, even if James tries to understand what M’Baku sees, all he sees is paradise. “Very much, yes.” he says. The only important thing is.. James whispers, knows it’s begging, but. “Don’t tell Shuri?” 

“I don’t have to.” M’Baku raises his armguard, shaking it as beads rattle around it, and frowns at him in sympathy: “you just did yourself.”

It takes a moment for James to understand. A very long moment, and when he does, the ground falls away; all he can see is those beads. Those small, fine beads on that giant’s arm. 

But, who would have thought M'Baku had  _ Kimoyo _ beads on him? Who would have thought he actually knew how to use them too? 

James really does feel frozen then. Like that butterfly; pinned down and frozen, just that one beat of its wings away from safety. Like he’d stepped into his old cryo pod without knowing; like a trap. And wouldn’t that be something? To stay in this moment forever, oblivious to it all. To the icy beads down his back that warn him: she is already there. She has heard. 

Shuri is behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so this is one of the first I started on.. and I been pecking away at it too long, so I hope you'll like it!


	23. break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> he cannot. and yet,..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys! this is short, because there's just still too much to wrap up. so, I cut a chapter up in pieces again. sorry, but at least this gets breath ;)

It’s  _ over.. _

M’Baku is unmoving behind him; a shadow cast over James; as big and menacing and still as the mountain he ruled. Yet, he is nothing —nothing! —in comparison to the raw fear; the crawling menace of getting caught in the act. Of revealing secrets he had only just known to keep. From her.

_ Shuri. _

It’s  **over.** . 

James finds himself somewhere on the ground. That, at least, is the  _ right _ place. The one  _ right _ in so many wrongs. It’s better to be down here, where he belongs. Safer; more honest then venturing up in the clouds, with her. Perhaps he’d fancied himself a modern Icarus, Trying to fly that high. Trying to be close to her; to. Up too high; measuring himself with the gods. Trying to hold and make love to the sun itself.

Shuri has left him burned to a crisp. 

This is what he gets. Wings burned off and back down on the cold, hard pavement. Stone crumbling like mud in his palms.

And he’d tell her: _ ‘it’s not fair.’ _ Tell her: _ ‘It’s not fair. You cannot relinquish me; you cannot cast me away because, recycling. It’s a thing.’ _

It’s a thing..

_ ‘They’ll pull me from the garbage heap and put me back together again. All wrong, again. Make them theirs. And that’s not good. That’s not right. I’m yours; I’m  _ **_yours_ ** _.’  _

But his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth; teeth glued together. If there’s any sound he’s making it’s a pathetic whine; like a dog out of breath. Or a beast, in pain, after receiving that killing blow. Defeated by the good knight —by M’Baku, but without even a glancing blow taken. Some dragon to defeat he turned out to be; wrought by his own words.

And what’s that? There is one more sound: a scratching of metal on stone. An odd vibrating; shaking like a drill, digging into pavement. What  _ is _ that? James redirects his gaze down, curious. But the eyes stare unseeing; unable to interpret the thing in front of them. He blinks, blinks again, and finally understands what he sees. 

The arm  _ malfunctions _ ; it’s the arm that shakes. And James can only keep staring down at it, confused. To the hole in the ground, where that black jewel has dug in, like jaws into pavement stone. Where it crunches and shakes beyond his control. And he'd tell her; He’d say: ‘ _ I didn’t break it.’ ‘I  _ **_couldn’t_ ** _ have broken it.’ _

If words still worked for him.

But the shaking, it holds his attention, demands his gaze. An anomaly. An oddity. A fault: what should be a small one in the face of his world crumbling. A buoy in this beautiful dream ending. Yet with such vast implications James cannot drag his eyes away. Or perhaps James is just a coward; perhaps it’s the relative safety of staring down to the ground he craves. Staring at his own arm, when up above gods are flaying him with burning eyes he cannot meet. 

And yet.

James cannot remember any piece of him ever shaking without conscious effort. Least of all his  _ left _ arm. Not even the old, metal one. With the perfect thing  _ she _ crafted for him, it should be inconceivable. In an effort to fix this transgression; small as it is in comparison to his  _ other _ failings, he covers the malfunction with his right, and blinks. 

Again,  _ ‘I.. I didn’t?’ _ , he’d say. _ ‘I  _ **_couldn’t._ ** _ ’  _

If words still existed. 

But. but, it’s _ worse. _ The right shakes as well. Left and right, together in some odd concert. Hands, always steady. Shaking like an old man having a bad trip. James stares down at his palms. If this all- if it all wasn’t  _ bad _ enough, is the body broken as well? The left is powerful, perfect. But artificial; and machines break.  _ Always _ break. Needs maintenance, upgrades; improvement. 

It’s the flesh one; the  _ biological _ hand that should be eternal. The right arm that should be the truly indestructible one. And yet now that too shakes like it’s broken; shakes with the entire flesh body. The part of him that had always been like weed before: indestructible, unmarred and unchanging. And yet, now, that too has succumbed to pathetic tremors. 

James tries one more time. He tries to tell her, _ he didn’t. _ Didn’t break any of it. James shakes his head; Doesn’t understand.  _ Malfunction? _ He’d tell her, but his jaws still don’t work. His entire face; entire head, as useless and broken as the arms; the body. And, if there was any hope of her seeing, of her wanting back and forgiving. Of her knowing that under all that mess, he could be salvaged. That he could be fixed, if she’d just try again.. that hope is certainly gone now.

It tries to raise off it’s knees, but all it does is fall down, and land on it’s ass. Because it’s garbage; broken; _ damaged _ refuge that should have been decommissioned a century ago, yet keeps going and going; put together by fools and dreamers and it’s never even understood why..

And it can hear Shuri speak. It can _ hear _ her, see her lips move, but the words do not make sense. There is an answer, from the man. Voice like a cavern, still at his back. Slow and sad and cautious, and that makes no sense. But then, nothing has made sense in a long time.

Someone walks over; booted feet in gold and red. A woman, and she crouches down. A dangerous looking woman; and she scowls. It knows her. The name.. Okoye? Hard to think, and the eyes will not close. Will not blink. They stare at nothing, beyond its control. And then the floor lurches.

The scowling woman has him though. Lifts up the body as if it was nothing. If only  _ he  _ were nothing. If only James could disappear into the cracks. If only this time he could be a ghost, and not bound to this broken, useless corpse. 

But it is pointless to try. “James,”  _ she  _ calls. 

Shuri calls; And he remembers that  _ he _ is. He has a name now; he is a  _ someone _ . One person, of all those jagged parts. With memories and past; and grateful though he is, that means this responsibility can no longer be dodged. He cannot leave, he cannot hope to put this on someone else. Not even on Bucky. James has proven, in his own pathetic way, that he is not a hair better. That he never  _ was _ any better.

So, when Shuri calls he answers as well as he can: blinks and raises his head a little from Okoye’s chest. He fears what he would see there. The end; certain and obvious.

But all he sees is a sad smile. No surprise; not shock. Shuri still takes his hand, and James relaxes to her touch. Cradled like a child in Okoye’s arms, too tired to keep fighting, keep running. Why did he even try? He was never meant for paradise. But, Shuri is at his side; once again. Still at his side, for now. 

People are talking. The heavy baritone of M’Baku. The steady surety of T’CHalla. More;  _ many _ more. James wonders where they’re going. Needs to know, if this responsibility is not one he can evade. Then, he sees it, up ahead, the palace of Wakanda; a promise of a destination. 

Not yet the refuge heap. 

The warning still lays heavy in his mind:  _ ‘He will have to leave.’ _ M’Baku’s words. And, James doesn’t doubt them to be true. Once they enter, James knows they are going down, under the palace. Too low for his rooms. Too low even for the meeting rooms of usual labs. They head lower still; somewhere deep below the labs he has only been for cryo and surgery. But they are not making him leave. Not now; not yet. They will not just cast him aside. And James supposes that’s the best he can hope for. Relieved and exhausted, when he wishes for it, this time, oblivion has mercy.


	24. cousin Vas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> past chapter;  
> added warnings:  
> periodt-ypical homophobia and internallized homophobia.

_ After listening to Yakov’s tale; After receiving the miserable, desperate plea that follows in complete, stone faced silence, Cousin Vas takes another long drag of his cigarette. Fills his lungs with tar and sighs out the long trail of smoke before he looks once left, then right; like he expects company on the deserted Berlin parking lot.  _

_ “Thing is. I  _ **can** _ help.”  _

_ The younger man pauses again, eyes twinkling with odd mirth in the marginal streetlight. Taking his time to force that long, searching eye contact with his uncle. Making Yakov feel that odd mix of uncomfortable old uselessness and prickling ancient distrust. Cousin Vas is Yakov’s nephew, but everyone calls him Cousin Vas. he’s a hustler; a fast boy. And Yakov knows, with a certainty in his soul, that man is trouble. The wife, Angelica, had warned Yakov not to trust Cousin Vas. least of all, with this. _

_ “But, you will have to choose  _ **whom** _ I help.”  _

-

“Becky’s gonna laugh her ass off when I tell her.” A week later Bakushka has his own cigarette in his mouth, marching with that kind of excited energy he’s had ever since he came back from his infiltration. An infiltration that had him attend a cinema. They have spent the last year here; Yakov and his detail, in what is being referred to now as East Berlin. They have done well for themselves; good work. Perfect missions. Trapping left over Nazis left and right. Good work, especially by Bakushka. Except on that last one; that aborted mission. According to mission command, Bakushka never even made it to the main movie. Left half-way through the newsreels.

“Becky?” Yakov asks, uncertain; hardly able to keep up. Out-of-breath and sweating already in his coat; too-hot for summertime in Berlin.

”My _ sister _ .” The man answers dismissively, in that effortless, drawled American that is his default now. A gesture with his only hand, cigarette trailing smoke trailing after it in the evening light.  _ Becky.  _ Another name-that-is-not-a-name. Just like Bucky  _ -Bucky! _ That’s what his Bakushka would like to be called now. Which Yakov thinks isn’t a real name at all. Not even eligible for a dog. But then, Americans are  _ weird _ like that.

And seriously, how is this his life? When the brass had agreed to grant Yakov custody over the one armed man, swayed by his assessment that he would be  _ worth _ it; willing to agree party resources because Yakov had proven, time and again, to have an eye for this.. Well; this is not what Yakov had seen in his future.

Perhaps, Yakov wonders; perhaps he is simply cursed. It’s the only explanation he has why he finds himself here, heading towards that abandoned parking lot where he’d rendezvoused first with his nephew. His last resort, to save their necks. Just when his life had picked up, from that hole. From near certain death; the fear and depression when he’d heard of his dear Danska. 

Sadness, of course. But, more so: the terror of knowing  _ they _ would come for him too. 

What had his cousin Vas called it again?

-

_ “Accused of Depravities. Nasty business. Firing squad, was it?”  _

_ Defensively, Yakov pushed his hands deep in his pocket, eyes averting. He could only hope the light of his own cigarette, caught between dry lips, didn’t illuminate enough of his flinch. Still, a moment of foolish bravery; a piece of useless loyalty compelled Yakov to speak up. “My Danska was a fine man, and a brave soldier. Loyal. He.. he deserved better.” _

_ “Oh, believe me, I know.” Vasily grins, wickedly. Too knowingly; too smug. “Your Danska would have gone a long way. But, he’s  _ nothing _ like the Bakushka, is he?” _

-

And Cousin Vas wasn’t wrong about that. If Danska had been a valuable operative, trained by Yakov to perfection,  _ Bakushka _ is on another level. Danska had been a diamond in the rough; someone needing training and discipline. Someone with talent that gave him the capabilities to reach the top. But if Danska had reached the top of human capabilities, Bakushka operated  _ in space _ . 

His Russian is nearly perfect; from just the few words Yakov bothered to teach him and overheard discussions. Though Yakov tried to keep him away from news; from radio’s from other people. The German, he apparently learned while in the cage in the laboratory where Yakov and his troops had found him. Then, there’s his shooting; too straight and perfect. Lighting reflexes. And strength; scary amounts of strength..

The brass are just starting to see how special he is. How valuable.. Yakov had been getting high praise. As for.. the  _ usual  _ allegations, following him around. well; Yakov is  _ married _ now. To a lady; and a fine one too. His Angelica should put him above those base suspicions that had thwarted his career and besmudged his name. With the rumors finally put to rest, and an operative of such skill under his wings, Yakov had finally turned the tide. He was finally moving up into the world.

And then, Bakushka had to remember that his real name is Bucky, and that he needed to  _ go home _ .

-

_ “Why, with that boy under your wing, you’ll be safe from such talk forever.” Vas had assured him; something Yakov had already known. “With that kind of talent, no one will care what you get up to at night. Not with him; not with anyone. Perfect ploy too. German soldier, back from the front with a missing arm. Play the disillusioned soldier; not important enough to have been arrested in the Nazi purging, but the perfect target for recruitment. No wonder the Werewolves are all over that; like bees to honey. Still, one arm does stand out; and imagine how much stronger he could be, if we’d fix him.” _

_ “He doesn’t want it. The prosthesis was rejected, his body’s reaction quite violent. I don’t think..” Yakov sighed, still disilllusion by that. By that failure. But then, his mind caught up to the rest of what cousin Vas said. What he  _ insinuated. _ Those evil, dangerous, deadly accusations. Something black rolled through the old soldier’s guts.  _

_ “I haven’t touched my Bakushka.” Yakov was outraged. He was; by the very idea. “We are not like that. I am not some degenerate.”  _

_ Besides, even if he would have been.. wrong that way, Yakov had seen the man looking at his wife. The American obviously prefers girls. Although sometimes.. When he smiles. Yakov cannot help but think, maybe..  _

_ Vas’s expression had turned to a lazy grin, eyes too sharp, too knowing; again. A man sure of his winnings. He put his hands in his pockets in a placating gesture. “Sure uncle. I’m just saying. On  _ my _ base we would not have thrown away two perfectly good men over a little indiscretion like that.” _

_ “Hah.” Yakov cannot help the venom in his tone. Vas may be making a career, but his base is way up -way up north; where they send the unwanted and those unloyal to the party. Everyone knows: no-one wants to be at those frozen workcamps. An execution is a mercy in comparison. “You get  _ **_sent_ ** _ to Siberia for.. what they accused Danska of.” _

_ “You know, our base is more of a research and science division than the others.” Vasili smiles, wider. Teeth bared, cigarette smashed between molars. “And, please. Do not lie to yourself. We can all see how you’ve been grooming him. Training, teaching. Making him depend on you. By the way, my Command approves; most definitely. I approve. You are at your best in that role, and you’ve found yourself someone.. something very valuable. But don’t make yourself out to be some selfless martyr. You, my Uncle, just have trouble keeping your dick out of your work.”  _

_ “ I have not touched him.” Yakov bites, anger burning into indignation. _

_ “How sad,” Vasily grunts, “and now you are going to let him escape, and you’ll be strung up for it. For him; yet you haven’t even had a decent taste.” A shake of the head, a slow sigh. “ Look, it’s your choice. I can get him out to the West side. Or, I can.. help you. I’m just saying. I can only help _ **_one_ ** _ of you.”  _

-

Only _ one _ of them.

They walk on, Yakov and his Bakushka. They’ve reached one of the parts of Berlin that is little more rubble, and Vas again has trouble keeping up; clambering rubble and navigating puddles. Yakov’s mind is as poor to navigate as the streets they find themselves. The shadows lengthen, and the absence of streetlights turn the bombed out buildings to either side to black blotches of ink. Cousin Vas will help only one of them, and Yakov wishes fervently for that one person to be his Bakushka.

But, if that were to happen. What would become of Yakov? They are at the gate of the parking lot, before Yakov catches up, and tries to plead with the American this time: “My friend.. I am not sure it would be a good idea to return now. The Americans..”

There’s a grunt, as Bakushka —no, Bucky now— examines the gate. "All I did was help you catch some Nazis. I think we all agreed, they're the real enemy." Then he sighs, looking down at the new shiney lock. Someone must have closed it back up; apart from the fresh lock on the gate, an extra chain strengthens the fence. Last week, Yakov had entered unhindered. But then, the war is over and Berlin is rebuilding; there is a lot of activity.

Bakushka checks with Yakov that this is the place, then puts his cigarette back in his mouth with half a shrug, freeing his one hand to nonchalantly pull the gate open, breaking chain and lock alike like it was made of crepe-papier. The metal wiring, Yakov notices, has pulled loose like cookie dough, only the steel outer framework in tackt, yet bent under that dismissive power. 

Yakov sucks in a breath, cursing softly. Bakushka scares even him, sometimes. And, perhaps yes; perhaps that is the real reason he has yet to touch Bakushka beyond the nearest rewarding touches. Bakushka is magnificent; his very presence making Yakov’s breath catch, his hands aching to run his fingers over that jaw, those lips.. And yet, it is a hard thing to do, when Yakov has seen first-hand how easily Bakushka can yank those arms straight off with a good tug.

Still, Yakov pushes on; follows Bucky through the re-opened gate. Desperately trying to find fault in his reason. There is none. Not with the old, outdated information Bakushka has. And Yakov worked hard enough to keep the growing enmity between America and the USSR from his protege. As for the Nazi’s.. theoretically, the American's reasoning is sound. In practice, those lines are already blurred. In practice, both superpowers are scrambling for power, what few remain Nazis but pawns in their game. Perhaps it is time Yakov delicately added some info. “American agency and ours, we are not on good terms. And you; you have been with us for almost two years now. They may be confused about your...allegiance.” 

“Ah, Jackie, you worry too much.” Bucky laughs, his one hand pointing a finger Yakov’s way as he twirls, walks backwards two steps, skips a step in barely contained joy. “I have friends too, you know. Besides, when I tell them about _ Stevie. _ .”

“Stevie?” It’s the first somewhat real name Yakov has heard from his Bakushka since he came home; excited and apparently with all his memories recovered. But still, hardly a real name. Yakov still holds out the half-hope that Bakushka has finally lost it; gone mad, and is making this all up.

“Guy went down with a plane. Must a’ either drowned or froze.” A shrug of both shoulders, the half-arm ending in a ruined elbow gesturing. “But, with me; I was fine. So, I figure, they thawn him out, he should be good, right?” 

Of course, that is hoping against hope. Bakushka might have had a few unstable weeks, but after the experimental prosthesis was removed; after the inflammation and the accompanying fever had gone down, he had become quite civilized and reasonable once again. It helps; knowing the violent rages are a thing of the past: Yakov fearlessly pushes ahead and asks. “Who is  _ Stevie? _ ” 

The implication that this Stevie might be as indestructible as Baku-Bucky is one that at least brings hope to Yakov. If they’d missed someone in that base in Austria? Someone that also seemed dead, but was just as alive as Bakushka had proven to be? He would be as valuable as Bakushka. Yakov might have a second basket to lay his eggs in. Or at the very least, a diversion from the wrath of the party, were Bakushka to defect. “Was he one of the men with you, when we found you? A.. a.. prisoner?” 

“Stevie?” Bucky cackles a gleeful laugh. “Nah, he’s just a kid from Brooklyn. And definitely the no-surrender type, so..” this time the laugh is half self-deprecating. “Hope you’re coming with, Jackie. You’re going to  _ love _ him.” 

Putting this hair-brained scheme of saving some unimportant kid aside, Yakov actually considers it; what would be left for him here, after this? A firing squad would be a best-case. But, would fleeing to America truly be better? Would they take in an old, useless soldier like Yakov? And Angelica; his beautiful, dutiful wife? Would she come? She used to love to travel, true. With her troupe of the ballet. But, with her ankle, a life on the run doesn’t sound possible.. Yakov tries one last, pathetic time. “Why is it so important to get this Stevie anyway?”

“Oh,” They’ve finally reached Vas’s idling van, the man leaning on the hood in a nonchalant posture. Headlights pouring onto them, hiding all but Vas’s dark silhouette. Bakushka slows and turns, thinking, averting his eyes from the light to search across the dark, unlit pavement. Finally, his eyes settle on Yakov’s, in an odd half-smile.“It’s what friends do.”

Then, he turns back to Cousin Vas, and freezes. 

At the muzzle of a gun aimed straight at his face. One movement, and a loud bang.

Vas can only help  _ one _ of them...

The shot reverberates in the silence. And then, Bakushka, his beautiful boy, falling to the ground. An empty shell; dead. A moment; lasting forever, before Yakov remembers his voice.

“You’ve killed him.” 

This was not…

Vasily puts the gun away. “Don’t be dramatic. You told me he survived days on his own with two bullets between the eyes. This is only one, and I nearly missed! Fucker’s got some reflexes.” 

And Yakov  _ breathes _ . Then breathes again. 

Vas bangs on the van behind him, and two soldiers step out, a stretcher between them. His American, his Bakushka is roughly thrown on a moment later. Blood is bubbling where his left eye used to be, his left temple is gone. Grey brain-matter sways underneath, moving oddly like a cuttlefish hiding for cover. Then, the stretcher and soldiers are gone, leaving a trail of almost fluorescent blood leading into the van. 

Yakov swallows, eyes down on the concrete. 

Angelica, his wife, had  _ told  _ him not to trust his nephew with this. She’d  _ warned _ him. Called Vas a snake and a profiteering bastard. But, him and the wife are not on the best of terms. and.

And. Cousin Vas is  _ clever _ and  _ enterprising _ and  _ gets shit done. _ More than a decade his Junior, Vasily has already passed him in rank. If Vas offered him a way to save himself. Not just himself; but his new wife, his family’s name. Hell, possibly his family’s lives itself if it was true how hard the party burned through its subjects. If Vas had giving him the option to hold onto his Bakushka as well...

Cousin Vas would only help _ one _ of them. And Yakov had chosen for himself.

When Yakov drags his eyes from the trail of blood, Vasily smiles at him thinly. “One amnesic superspy back in your lap, Uncle. Better get your story straight before he wakes.”

His nephew is right. Yakov vehemently hopes the missing eye will not be permanent. But, considering how Bakushka’s head wound had healed last time… This.. this is the right choice. The only choice. And his Bakushka..? Well, he  _ is _ a little tank. But he’ll need a new name. And a backstory. Maybe.. an accident out in the field? As for a name.. Nikita would suit the American well. Sensible, for boys as well as girl’s It’s better than Bucky, at any rate. 

What kind of a name is  _ Bucky _ anyway?

“Oh, Vasily?” he calls to his cousin, just before the man steps back into his van. “Just a heads up. Bakushka remembered the guy that shot him a long time ago.” 

The young man stalls. “What?!”

“Oh yes,” Yakov Karpov grins, finding quite a measure of sick satisfaction in seeing his nephew blanch. “One of the first things he remembered, really. We still don’t know how. Why he remembers that, when everything before the fall was a blur before. Consensus is, he hit his head on the way down. But, really, who knows? Except that he’s _ definitely _ going to remember you.” 


	25. goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> set on a path out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes I did it again: cut the chapter into 2 parts. I had to, because there was too much again. so, one last chapter wrapping this up after this. pls enjoy! <3

It’s  **over.** . 

These last few days have passed James in a daze. This. This is the first clear moment he has. Has had. And it’s too little, too late. Shuri is looking up at him with sad eyes; staring just inches removed. Inches; but it might as well be yards; miles;  _ lightyears _ . Shuri does not try to travers that distance; doesn’t reach out and touch and pull him in. 

And now, soon;  _ soon, _ it really  _ will _ be miles.

“It’s over, isn’t it?” and that; that right there would be his first clear _ thought _ . Useless, pointless and, again,  _ way too late _ . James’s eyes prick with it, and he swallows. To no effect. Shuri starts, peers into his eyes harder, like she’s looking for something. Something she cannot find. And yet, that distance remains. An invisible wall, cold as steel. Hard as vibranium. 

Finally, the princess speaks, in a near-whisper: “we.. us?” Then, her voice finds strength. Surety: “ **_we_ ** were not a mistake.”

A balm to his wounds, perhaps. But they are useless; words, without power. He does not believe their promises. He cannot trust in her word. James crosses his arms tight, thumbs digging deep into his armpits. Fingers over the silver sigil on his shoulder. Two sides of a coin, they tell him.

But he has trouble believing the words. He has trouble believing their gestures and promises in writing, when they are _ sending him away. _ When James can hear the operative word, loud and clear. 

We **_were_ ** . 

Past tense.

It’s  **_over_ ** . 

Everyone is here. Everyone is saying goodbyes. T’Challa and M’Baku, making quiet conversation. The queen, Ramonda, gliding amongst them with her perfect grace. The Dora Milaje, the Jabari warriors. Okoye and Mohai, the first meeting James’s eye with that graceful strength when Mohai shrinks in on herself and ducks away. And  _ Wanda _ .

And how is  _ Wand _ a here? Jakes watches in mute fascination as she hugs Ramonda and rubs at suspiciously wet eyes. Her travelbag is over a shoulder; sensible hiking boots under kaki shorts. Her dark sleeveless shirt, trailing down to her thighs, show her true colors: that dark magic red, accented in her hair. And how does that work? How is Wanda  _ awake? _ They did not use the Chalice. That, Shuri has assured him of. Over and over.

James has a little backpack as well; a set of clean clothes and an empty notebook. Like there’s  _ anything _ to write. Like there  _ ever  _ will be anything worth remembering now. James doesn’t think so.

They will send him away, with his backpack and his clean clothes. And with the arm. The writing on the inside, which he supposes could be their claim on him. But, the brand on the other side negates that. He wants it to be a black panther. Hell, he wants it to be  _ anything, _ other than what they have given him. The border tribe’s horseman, the miner’s lion, the river tribe’s crocodile.. Even Jabari’s gorilla, if they’d let him have it.

But they will not.

“Ready to go?” the queen, gliding in between them. Despite the wool in his head, the beating of drums in his ears, James doesn’t miss she knows better than to ask if everything is  _ alright _ . It’s  _ not. _ It’s over. It’s over.  **They** are over. 

James’s mind will not move on; doesn’t want to. He’d stay here, in this moment if he could. Hasn’t really moved on at all, since Shuri found him and.. That he’d ever wish to be frozen strikes James as next-level ironic. Or it should have. And yet, through the haze, he can hardly care. Because it’s over; it’s over.

_ Over. _ And no one will have him now. Cast aside with a claim over his shoulder, by something or someone that doesn’t even exist. A placeholder, more likely to ward off any patron ready to take up responsibility than that it will extend any form of protection. There’s no country, no agency, no  _ friend _ associated with the sign they’ve given it and it doesn’t seem like.. It’s just..

All over.

Finally, Shuri is the one that answers the queen. She turns to her mother, stating with a kind of fearful defiance: “ _ we _ were  _ not _ a mistake.” 

A silence, where James has time to ponder in distant wonder the past tense in that sentence. How that is not even the part she hesitated over. The easy acceptance from both women as the mother answers. And shouldn’t there at least be tears? James feels there should be tears. Yet, he is too tired, too  _ off  _ to bother with the pretence.

“You were _ not _ .” The queen agrees, easily. “Look what you did, together.” She gestures, hands encompassing the mingling of Jabari and Panther warriors. When James looks, his eyes catch on M’Baku’s, his thin knowing grin as the man returns the look, then continues his conversation with the king. 

M’Baku  _ should _ be happy, James considers. James and Wanda, both to be sent on their way. Out onto a path through the jungle that should take them right out of Wakanda and into Nigeria. How  _ convenient _ for the Jabari ruler: both Colonizer interlopers on their merry way. And Wanda actually wanted to leave without being prompted. Right after waking.

The queen continues: “M’Baku may have extended a hand to us in friendship, but our tribes are still divided. We are obviously not quite ready. Especially as seeing our borders are open now; our knowledge and wealth known to the world. To protect our own, we will need to work together at our best. And you have shown us, in a safe environment, that we are not working well together yet. That is going to take time. Practice. 

“James’s little run showed where we need to improve. But, it also showed we  _ can _ pull together when needed. This has brought our tribes closer. Shuri, I swear, you and M’Baku argue like siblings now, instead of rivals.”

Shuri looks to her brother and his new-found friend with an theatrical eye roll, and James has a moment of sick jealousy, wondering if his perfect replacement isn’t even waiting for him to leave before stepping into that place in the princess's heart. Though, M’Baku’s interests seem of the poke-it-with a stick kind, not the romantic kind. Besides, it was Ramonda that came to him, after Shuri. And, for that gesture, empty as James fears it to be, he tries to find something nice to say. “I guess I was a decent enemy.”

The queen steps closer; between him and her daughter. Knowing eyes demands full attention, one graceful arm comes up to hover between them. “No, you were a safe  _ exercise. _ One that showed our flaws with no casualties. And, there’s this now, between us.” Her hand finally lands, lightly, on the side of his shoulder. On the new insignia. “This is but a token of the proof you will carry next to your heart. We are family now, White Wolf. And what I have here are the documents to declare this to the world at large.” 

Ramonda smiles again, before pushing a folded paper on him, the cover emblazoned with the same silver sign Okoye put on his shoulder. It’s an official document. A Wakandan passport. James frowns down at them and opens them, reading himself to be brother to T’Challa the king, son to Ramonda, queen of Wakanda.

And that doesn't even make a lick of sense. If he is theirs, then why is there no crest of a panther branded onto his shoulder? Why make such a bold claim, without claiming  _ him? _ Why let him go, but not tell him  _ where _ to go. What to do? What to be. Whom to be. All he has is empty promises, the backpack, and the double-edge arm. Engravings on this inside hidden underneath, the silver wolf’s head painted proudly on his shoulder.

But it’s just a lick of paint. Hydra won’t hesitate to scratch it off and put on whatever strikes their fancy. Which they will. It’s over; It’s over, and they are sending him away. Alone, unprotected but for words and.. And their names.

Still, James recrosses his arms; lets his thumb run over the inside: over the armpit’s old metal, his first vibranium. He fingers the grooves. The words. Their names. And he grins. That side, that will not wash away. They’d have to  _ scratch _ it out. Which is hard to do, with vibranium. Even if one has the tools. And even then, it would be liable to show through, eventually. It may be over, but the memory cannot be taken.


	26. Ceremony

He remembers waking in a dank place. A fresh wetness to the air that has him tense up before he smells the placating hue of natural stone and that sharp metal tang that can only be vibranium ore. They are down, far below. In the mines, somewhere. But it’s Wakanda; Wakanda still. Though everything is off.. _different._ no natural light filtering in, but candle-light. No chime from below; the machines digging forever at the ore silent; replaced by a soft humming. Someone at his side, the vibranium side, a soft scratching and swipe from a brush. And, for a moment, he thinks: repairs! Yet the arm is closed, and the dark frown is directed on the outside plating his shoulder. Not fixing anything. Painting on top of it.

Okoye; it’s Okoye bent down over his side. Frowning in concentration, working slowly and steadily with absolute focus. And when she finally straightens she nods over to her side. To the second woman in the room, hovering somewhere above his head, just out of sight. And he knows that voice; the only one that matters. Above him. Singing to him.

With Okoye no longer breathing in his ear, it is easier for him to focus on the song. That beautiful voice he will not be able to hang on to. No; not just her; not just one voice. Her voice close, inside his little space of dark and dank and candle-light; but more voices just a little further. A slow sad hymn, sung to a cavernous hall that shakes with it, in tune. Shakes the ground and the walls and the cool, stone slab he is resting on.

The voice above stops, leaving only the rest, from avar, to carry the tune. And then, she speaks. And he knows her; it’s her. It’s Shuri. Her hand lands on his forehead, yet her voice is sad and distant. “Once upon a time Wakanda was the last nation to stand, an island surrounded by its slain brothers. We hid, in the jungle, from the Colonisers. And it shamed us, but it kept our children safe. It kept our knowledge, our arts, our science alive. Yet, if the Colonizer was blind to us, it was worse for us, hiding in the dark. Not knowing who or what awaited us.

“So came the brave men and women, the Hatut Zeraze. Dogs of war, that would venture out in that world so vicious and keep watch, and warn us of danger.

“The WarDogs were our best and bravest. They ventured out, they left their family, their loved ones. For hundreds of years they defended our beautiful country, knowing their chances of ever returning were slim, even in old age. They gave their life in service, so we may feel safe.” 

“This is what the tattoo inside a WarDog’s lip symbolizes.

“But, it is also a promise. A dedication by all the friends, of all the family, and of those left behind. They put their mark there, on their loved one’s themselves. It is their prayer for their safe return. And a promise, to come for their body. To retrieve them if they fall.” 

“You are not one of our dogs; you should never have been kept on a chain. And we will not, ever, ask you for that. You should run free, like the White Wolf of our stories.” she taps his arm; his shoulder, like there’s something significant there. “If you ever need a master, this should be the one. He may seem weak and fickle sometimes, but I have had faith since the start. And I still have faith; in him.

“But, I do want to give you our promise. Our promise of safe haven. A place for you to return to, when you are ready to return. And our promise to.. To if you fail, if you fall. If you cannot return on your own power. A promise to retrieve your body and keep it safe. Will you accept my promise?” 

And James’s gut tightens, because he doesn’t want to; he doesn’t want...to leave. But also, no one has put a mark on him that _stayed_. Not since he lost the arm; not ever that lasts. He does not scar; returns to that original state everytime. As for the arm? It has been reinvented so many times now. New again and again. 

And James would say that. But, his tongue is still stuck, and his body too heavy. Too tired to move. Too tired to speak or fight. Almost too tired to care.

But Shuri? Shuri is smarter than him. Know so much more, knows what he’d want, so much better than he does. And at least, mercifully, she answers for him one more time: “You are right, a tattoo on your lip would probably fade by the end of next week. But, the shoulder joint? The insides, remember? Where you have had vibranium from the start?” Shuri lifts his arm, until it lays somewhere above him, thumb tangling his hair. If he had the strength to move, he could scratch himself, caressing the crown of his head. James does not; he is too heavy to move at all. But Shuri taps the plating, around his arm-pit, just above where flesh meets metal. And holds a pen out to him. 

James just looks back, exhausted, and manages a slow nod. It brings a slow, hesitant smile to her face, stretching with understanding. Wisdom and knowledge long before James can even rally enough will to _want;_ because he’s only ever wanted what she wants.

Shuri bends down to write. It takes a long time, a soft buzzing and prickling like heat, before she straightens, lookis down to stare into his eyes. She finally takes his right hand with a sigh, and runs his fingers over the engraving.

“It says: This one is family to Shuri, princess of Science and Wakanda.”

She smiles crookedly again, and it forms a lump in James’s throat to see. Still, her voice is clear and strong. ”I hope this will comfort you, when you are away. I hope you will know; believe. I will protect you. I will always have your back. I will always love you.” 

-

Shuri had left then, only leaving the Dora general at his side. And he’d have panicked; wanted to panic. James had wanted to run after Shuri. Or at least, call out to her. _Don’t leave me._ _Don’t leave me alone with Okoye, to her non-existent mercy._ But, then Ramonda had stepped in, fixing him with her kindest smile. The Queen took up the pen next, eyes searching his. “I would like you for a second son, James. Will you have me?”

Of course, he cannot say no to her. Nor to the King himself. Who comes in next. That calm, intelligent smile of his fixed in place as he sat down next to James. He took a moment, long and still, before he spoke in measured words. “I have already promised you my protection. I have tried to keep you safe, here. In my beautiful country. But perhaps it was Hubris to think it would suit you, just because I love it with all my heart. Yet, that doesn’t mean my promise will become void when you leave. I would be your brother in this, White Wolf. Will you accept?”

Like he’d say no.

When T’Challa steps out, James is exhausted. Just wants to pass out. Return to oblivion and sleep. He closes his eyes, tired and uncaring. Yet, a warning flashes in his brain as another shadow falls over him.

M’Baku, standing over him. And this one is the first James might deny. If James could. It feels like a lie; and something in his throat gurgles at the idea.

“Don’t be difficult, Colonizer. I feel part responsible for getting you outed of your safe haven. Though I still feel you should thank me for it. Still, I am not a man to dodge responsibility. And, if your corpse requires to be dragged away.. The Jabari are the best for that job.” 

He grins, something almost mean but not quite. “Besides, if we must have Colonizers in our beautiful land, I’d rather it be one as interesting as you. I might come to like you yet, White Wolf.” 

The man punches his arm, and if James was reeling before, the room is spinning when the Jabari chief leaves. But, the final piece is Okoye, taking up the pen. “No.” 

He manages, weakly. “No, you _hate_ me.” 

“I do not.” She bites at him, hard and final. “But I may hate the fear that makes you cower behind my princess. I hate the mind-set that puts her on a pedestal not even she can live up to.”

She moves over him, eyes close and frowning in challenge. “You can choose if you want my name or not.” waves that special pen at him with a waggle of her eyebrows. “But it will not matter in my actions. You are already part of this family, nd it is my duty to _protect_ it.” 

When he aquiscences with half a shrug, Okoye gives him a baring of the teeth, before bending over and adding her own name. She takes her time, some of her cursive hand carrying over to his still-fresh nerves. When she is done, Okoye gets to her feet and stretches with a pop of her back. But, she steps in again to frown down at him, her expression strikt “Remember: Wakanda _forever._ That has been our credo for over five hundred years.”

The engraving pen she drops into James's real hand. And with a shrugs, she leaves him too. The last one. With a last word. “And _how old_ were you again, boy?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Waah! Thats it! Its done!! So proud ;) anyway stay tuned theres more partd coming.  
> Epic plotz!

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, I would love to hear any thoughts and comments you have after reading. or, if you want to share the story in any way, I'd really think that is great too! safe a horse, share a fic.. hnn.


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